


Can't Get No Love (Without Sacrifice)

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Love, Nightmares, PTSD, Porn with Feelings, Rating for blood and smut, Resurrection, Slow Burn, Top Richie Tozier, Topping from the Bottom, richie loves his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: Sighing wetly, Richie looks back at the translation; a set of rules, instructions, a rite… warnings.A solution. A second chance. A fucking miracle, if it goes right.It has to go right. Richie will fucking make it go right. Fuck the warnings; not like he’s ever paid attention to DO NOT ENTER signs before.*Richie brings Eddie back.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Reddie - Relationship
Comments: 40
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will update Fridays, roughly 5 chaps  
Title inspired by [Happy Ending by Mika](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C655TFBNbhU/). I have been destroyed by feels. But worry not! The fic will be a happy ending, despite the clear intentions of the song.
> 
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

The words blur a little in Richie’s eyes. He rubs his thumb over the ancient paper, looking from the words he can’t understand and then back up to his laptop screen, the translation clear enough.

Richie covers his mouth, his eyes, breathes slowly and then too quickly. He has to go into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet for a long time, but the urge to puke his guts out subsides. His hands keep shaking, and he reads the words over and over behind closed eyes, each letter burned to his lids.

Three weeks since they killed It. Three weeks since they… since Eddie…

Richie hasn’t forgotten. None of them have. The theory that they want to remember this time, that friendship and love have overcome fear and evil? Richie likes that theory. But he also lies awake at night wishing he could fucking forget how Eddie’s warm blood spilled through his hands. How Ben’s hands bruised him from holding him back as Neibolt was swallowed whole. How his childhood burned behind his eyes like it was yesterday after nearly three decades of a static, empty corner of nothing.

Sighing wetly, Richie looks back at the translation; a set of rules, instructions, a rite… warnings.

A solution. A second chance. A fucking miracle, if it goes right.

It has to go right. Richie will fucking make it go right. Fuck the warnings; not like he’s ever paid attention to DO NOT ENTER signs before.

He just happens to be lucky that he already has a ‘blade of significance’. Richie bets most people don’t even have a pocket knife, let alone a blade that could be perfectly used for a fucking ritual like this one.

Richie is an anxious, shaking, walking fucking stomachache while he packs some underwear, stuffing gauze and alcohol into the bottom of his bag under some clean socks and the smallest sweatshirt he owns. It’s not for him, after all.

He sits at the foot of his bed and turns his old ass pocketknife over in his hands. It’s been used to carve his and Eddie’s initials into the kissing bridge twice. Significant enough?

Despite age, the knife is shiny as fuck, and when Richie opens the blade and touches it to his thumb, blood wells with just a little pressure. Okay, so it apparently cuts just fine. He puts his thumb in his mouth, stuffing the knife in his pocket while his phone starts buzzing on his nightstand. He stretches to grab it and answers.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says.

“ _ Rich? Hey, you alright? You didn’t call me back the other day _ ,” Beverly says on the other end of the line.

Richie closes his eyes, her voice like aloe on a sunburn. “Yeah, fuck, I’m sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well. It slipped my mind.”

“ _ Well, maybe a text every morning? We… we got worried, _ ” Bev says, and then there’s a soft voice beside hers.

“ _ Richie? _ ”

“Haystack,” Richie sighs. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you kids on your honeymoon.”

Ben laughs softly. “ _ It’s alright, just good to hear your voice. Have you talked to Mike? We were talking with Bill—might go down to visit him in Florida in a week or so. If you can make it? _ ”

Richie exhales heavily, sprawling across his bed. He looks at the cut on his thumb, sealing up with a little seam of blood. “That sounds great. Fuckin’ spectacular. Taking your dog?”

“ _ Yeah, I’m bringing the dog. _ ”

“Good. I’ll need a companion with similar interests.” Richie drops his hand down onto his bed. “I’ll make sure to text you guys, at least once a day. Sorry about the last few days, I’ve been… shitty.”

“ _ Richie, you know you can come stay with us while you’re not on tour, _ ” Bev says, and Ben immediately agrees.

“Yeah, I’d love to visit. Maybe after the Florida thing. Uh, I gotta go for now? I’ll call Mike and Billiam, too, I promise.”

“ _ Just don’t leave us hanging, Rich, _ ” Ben says softly.

“ _ Love you, _ ” Bev says.

“Love you guys, too. I’ll call you later.” Richie hangs up, looking at his ceiling until it gets blurry. He pulls his glasses off, the wetness dripping into his hairline stinging hot. He cries until the shaking stops, then crawls out of his bed and over to his travel bag. He pulls the book out, the leather creaking as he opens it to the page with the ritual he’s basically memorized on it. He runs his thumb over the image of the hand holding the heart, and the seam of dry blood on his skin cracks. Blood stains the page over the carefully drawn image, and Richie looks up.

“Wow. That’s pretty con-fucking-venient.”

*

Derry hasn’t changed in three weeks. The town is quiet at the end of summer, no festivities, no kids running wild, and most importantly, no fucking Pennywise.

Richie climbs out of his car in front of the hotel. He checks in with nobody and puts his shit in his room, sitting on the end of the bed for what feels like hours. He only got the room at the Town House because he knew they’d need somewhere to… come back to. For a minute. Maybe longer. The ritual didn’t specify.

“Two rituals in one year, Tozier. That’s pretty impressive,” Richie says, thumbing through his phone. He texts Bill a good morning, then sends Mike a picture of a very fluffy black puppy he saw a few days prior. He checks in with Ben, then tucks his phone into his back pocket. He pulls out the knife, looking it over before he decides he can’t keep being a little pussy for the rest of the day.

Richie tightens his shoelaces and pulls a palm leaf printed shirt on over his black T, to break up the solid black look of his outfit. No need to be over-dramatic about it, but there’s gonna be blood, and Richie knows black hides red. Or, he’s pretty sure.

He exits the Town House and climbs into his car with the book and the knife and he drives through town with a purpose, shaking unsteadily the whole way. When he gets to the kissing bridge, the sun is starting to fall, and Richie pulls over and climbs out. 

The old ass wood is just the same, the carving he’d fixed still fresh, darker than the aged, dusty tracks in the wood. Richie smiles, kneeling down next to the R + E, touching his fingers over it very softly.

“If this doesn’t go well… which it will, I know it will, but. Well. I love you, Eds. I didn’t wanna leave you, I… I’m gonna make this right. Even if it kills me,” Richie promises. He knocks his forehead against the wood, feeling calmer than he has in weeks. “I’m gonna make this right.”

Richie pushes off the ground, lifting his hand and scrubbing it under his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He gets back into his car, and the further he drives from the bridge, the more his hands shake. Eddie’s body might be impossible to retrieve, especially alone, and Richie understands. But, like all good rituals, the instructions have an answer for that, conveniently wrapped in a strip of soft cloth in Richie’s shirt pocket.

He reaches the empty strip of the road and pulls off to the shoulder, parking under some trees before he sits in the idling car for seven minutes. Maybe seventeen.

When Richie finally gets out of the car, he takes his time walking up to the empty lot of Neibolt house, the fence standing around an empty space of rocks and dirt, weeds already sprouting up between cracks in the ground, a thin layer of young grass blooming as ground cover.

The ground is soft under Richie’s feet as he walks over to where he thinks the well was, at the back of the basement.

The ritual was specific in two options—a fresh, present body, or the earth above a grave, plus salt. Eddie drops his bag down and digs around. The book and sweatshirt are in there, and he pulls out the jar of purified salt he brought for the ceremony and undoes the lid. He pours the salt out in a circle, then sprinkles some down in a pile and sets the jar aside.

“Uh… Okay,” Richie says, then pulls the book out of his bag. He turns through the pages, passing his small sticky notes before finding the page with the rite written upon it. Richie basically memorized it, but he wants to look at it. He wants to know he’s doing this right and not just, well… killing himself on the ruins of the house of his childhood nightmares.

From his shirt pocket, he pulls out the little handkerchief and unrolls it, his old glasses falling into one hand. Eddie’s blood is dark and dry on the lens, stuck in the cracks of the broken glass. Richie steadily reaches out and puts the glasses down on the pile of salt in the middle of the circle, then carefully crawls over the line, kneeling with his knees on either side of the white mound within the sphere.

Richie shrugs out of his over shirt, then tugs his t-shirt over his head, kneeling shirtless over the last place where he saw Eddie. He pulls the knife out of his pocket and opens it, goosebumps rising across his arms.

“From blood and s-s-salt, fuck,” Richie stops. “What am I, Bill?” He shakes his hands out, exhaling slowly through his parted lips.

The sun is low, glowing through the tree line in the west a bright garnet and honey, the clouds bleeding from pink and champagne to periwinkle and indigo towards the east. Richie feels the oncoming fall of night settle his nerves.

“Okay… Okay, get it together, Rich.” He sniffles hard, turning the knife over in his hands.

“From blood and salt, I call you. Flesh and bone, I command you. Body and soul, I invoke you,” Richie says, and he feels the ground under his knees give a soft tremble. Waking. “With this blade, I offer my blood, my pain, my life for yours. I summon you back from shadow with my life force as your light. I offer this heart… and bind it to you.”

The knife glints in the sunshine dappled through the evening sway of the trees, and Richie feels the knots in his stomach tying themselves over again. Richie curses at his nipples, peaked from the cold, and shuffles his knees deeper into the earth. He lifts the knife, the tip of the aged metal hovering over the left side of his chest.

He looked up some tips online, even watched some doctor shows to get the angle right, but it feels fucking weird and scary as fuck to have a knife just beneath his collar bone.

“This heart beats for you,” Richie says, steadying his hands on the knife. Very softly, he adds, “It always has.” He presses the tip of the blade to his skin, hesitates for a heartbeat, and then presses.

The burn is sudden, strong, and Richie exhales shakily as blood begins to pour from the slice. It’s definitely more pain, more heat than there should be from basically a scratch.

The ground trembles under his knees, and Richie realizes it’s the ritual, the magic, pulling through the wound. He digs the knife a bit deeper, angles it down, and when his skin and muscle splits he squeezes his eyes shut, tears running in streaks down his cheeks, dripping from his nose and chin when he ducks his head down.

The pain is for Eddie, his heart is for Eddie, he repeats over and over.

Richie lets out a shaken, broken sob and curves the knife down harder, blood spilling over his fingers. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, but the physical pain of cutting his chest open doesn’t even compare to the pain he’s been feeling in his soul since Mike and Ben dragged him away from Eddie’s still, quiet body.

Something is numbing his hands, numbing his naked stomach as his warm blood drips down it. Blood slides down his forearm and drips off his elbow, onto the pile of salt, and a sound like a tree splintering in the forests echoes beneath Richie’s knees.

He exhales, crying, cursing, and drags the knife down, down, opening the tear in his chest as deep as he can. The edges of his vision are crackling gray, and Richie can smell the ocean, ozone, thunder. He leans forward, blood spilling over the salt, melting it into a thick, sandy crimson ooze, and he can see it.

The ground is shaking. Shaking hard enough to make the dry granules dance, to make Richie’s glasses shake, sifting into the sand. The lens cracks, hard, and Eddie’s blood is suddenly much brighter. Wet.

Richie reaches out, trembling, tears and snot dripping from his face, and he touches the blood that’s now fresh, warm.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie bawls, his pulse hammering in his neck, his wrists, his chest feeling like his ribs have turned backwards, outwards, all kinds of fucked up and painful. Richie squeezes his eyes shut and pushes the knife harder, his other hand flying to the ground and grabbing at the little green blades.

There’s something hot and thick fluttering in his chest, pouring between bones, pushing at the seams of the huge cut he has created. Richie opens his eyes and watches through the blur of his wet glasses as a muted, red light glows through his blood. Something heavy pushes against his wound, desperate and living, and he chokes on a scream and a cry as his heart, his fucking heart, practically crawls out of his chest. The fucking thing is beating, the sound echoic and loud above the hurricane tearing through Richie’s head. It’s louder than the shaking earth, a beat that is too fast and too strong.

His heart is the glow, and it settles into the red salt and burrows like a naked rat, hungering for warmth, seeking something.

When his heart is buried into the salt, Richie coughs up some blood, a thin rivulet that stains down his chin. The crackling tree sound gets louder, nearer, like an ancient sycamore is about to topple over right on top of Richie, and he drops the knife and screams into the sound of the storm.

The quiet that follows swallows him whole, and Richie can only hear his own pathetic whimpers and gasps for breath.

It’s so quiet it’s painful, and Richie feels alone and helpless and fucking stupid because it didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work. It feels a little bit like dying… 

Then… Then Richie hears scrambling. Claws digging at rock… fingers scratching for purchase through dirt.

Muffled, through the earth and the red mud puddle between his knees, Richie hears a voice, coughing, pleading. “Help! Can anyone hear me?”

Richie stops breathing. His fingers have regained feeling, and he can see the ground moving, stirring like something is burrowing up. And more than that, he knows the voice. “Eds…”

“Help! Someone help!”

“Eddie!” Richie gasps, hunching forward over the ground, over the noise.

There’s a rocky, dusty noise, and then, “Richie?!”

“Eddie, hold on!” Richie starts clawing at the ground like a dog, digging frantic and angry like he’s never been human before. He has a primal need to get through the dirt and pebbles, the rocks shifting from above and below as he keeps screaming Eddie’s name. And Eddie keeps calling back.

Richie’s digging is halted when he freaks the fuck out, his fingers meeting another set of hands. “Oh, whoa! Holy fuck, fuck, whoa!”

“Richie, fuck!” Eddie yells, and Richie starts digging again.

“I’ve got you, hold on,” Richie yells, and he digs until one of Eddie’s hands is completely exposed, then he grabs it. The fingers are freezing cold, pale white, and Richie grabs Eddie’s wrist with his other hand. “Come on, come on!”

“Holy shit, Richie,” Eddie calls, less muffled, closer, warm, and Richie pulls hard, Eddie’s other hand pawing at the ground.

“I’ve got you, Eds, I’ve got—“Richie screams, his chest burning, flaring like a solar burst under the skin, and then Eddie’s head and shoulders are crawling from the hole, dirt falling out of his hair. His face is streaked with dirt, stuck to trails from what Richie can only guess were tears. He’s white as snow and almost as cold, but he’s breathing, his big dark eyes finding Richie’s face and lighting up like he’s seeing the sun. He coughs, shoulders heaving as Richie grabs at his shirt to heave him out. “Come on, Eddie!”

Eddie scrambles up out of the hole, collapsing into Richie’s chest, face in his neck, and Richie falls back, pulling Eddie over his body before curling against him. Richie digs his hands into Eddie’s hair, claws at his clothes and pulls him so close it hurts them both.

Eddie’s still coughing, crying into Richie’s neck, and his hands are cold, curled around Richie’s bare shoulder and rib. “Holy fucking shit, Rich, it was so dark. It was dark, and I—fuck.”

“I’ve got you. You were gone, Eddie, you—“

“You came back,” Eddie sobs, shuddering in Richie’s arms, curling between his legs, so small, so cold.

“You… what do you remember?”

Eddie clears his throat, sitting up a bit to scrub at his face, but his hands are dirty. “I thought I killed It… got stabbed. You were ho-holding me.”

“I didn’t wanna let you go. I’m so sorry, Eds,” Richie says, cupping Eddie’s face. The bandage over his cheek shifts a little, and Richie carefully tries to fix it. His fingers still, stop when he sees that under the edge of the bandage there… there’s no wound.

Bowers stabbed Eddie in the face, right through the cheek, but the mark isn’t there. Not even a scab or scar.

Eddie sniffles, reaching up and touching his hair, dust pluming off of him. “Was I dead? Did I fucking die down there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, baby, you were gone,” Richie says, carefully pulling the bandage off completely, just to see. He hesitates, then settles Eddie back in his lap, fingers gently grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up.

Eddie’s still shell-shocked, not questioning it when Richie pulls his shirt up to his chest, exposing his lean, toned stomach. His chest is smooth, unblemished, and Richie touches where It’s long claw had speared Eddie through. The skin is solid, not healed but fresh and flawless, like the mark never happened.

“Richie, did… anyone else—“

“No, just… Just you, Eddie. When we killed It, the cave. It started collapsing.”

“Where are we?”

“Neibolt. Above the well,” Richie says, letting Eddie’s shirt fall back down. The material is torn, shredded through and stained with something black and old. His clothes are filthy, his skin covered in dirt, some blood, but Eddie… Eddie is perfect.

Eddie exhales shakily, dropping his forehead down against Richie’s shoulder. “I was dead.”

“Three weeks,” Richie says, barely a whisper.

Nodding, Eddie sulks against him. “Richie, I was just trying to protect you.”

“Hey, you saved my life. And now I’ve saved yours. We are decently even,” Richie says, wrapping his arms around Eddie again.

“You brought me back from the dead. Not exactly even,” Eddie says into his neck. “How did you do it?”

“Uh…” Richie glances at the book, then kicks it shut, watching the pages turn. “With the power of true love?”

Eddie snorts, pushing away from him. “Asshole.” Eddie looks down at Richie, his mouth pulling into a sharp frown, brows pinched. He looks at his hands, and instead of disgust he’s just horrified. “Richie, you’re covered in blood. Holy fuck, is this yours? What did you… Rich, what did you do?” Eddie reaches out and touches along Richie’s chest, where the gash from the knife ran from his collarbone down across his pec, and Richie jolts.

His hand lands on Eddie’s chest, splayed over his collar and pec, and he feels warmth beneath his palm. It’s inhuman, unnatural… and it makes the gears in Richie’s head grind to a halt.

Richie realizes with shocking clarity that he’s covered in blood but no longer bleeding. The wound in his chest is sealed shut—a scar. He also notices an emptiness, a coldness that resembles stolen warmth, this absent heat burning up in Eddie’s chest under his palm.

Eddie has a heartbeat. Richie doesn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Reddie goodness. This chapter's kinda boring, I'm sorry, but we are moving in the direction of true love's kiss, I promise
> 
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

Richie picks blood off his hands like dried glue flakes, digging into the grooves between his fingers and along creases, the rust-colored stains deep and harrowing.

The Town House is stunningly quiet, the only sound that of the running water in the bathroom. Richie had pulled his shirt back on, and it glued itself to his bloody chest ten times worse than sweat. He didn’t want to drive Eddie back to the inn shirtless, covered in blood, looking like a fucking crazy person.

The bathroom door creaks, alerting Richie of Eddie’s presence, but maybe something had done that before. Richie had felt… whatever. It didn’t matter.

He looks up and Eddie is standing there, the sweatshirt still a little too big, wearing the boxers Richie brought for him but not the pants.

“Shower’s free. I think the water’s warm enough,” Eddie says. His dark hair is tousled, mostly dry. The water had heated his skin, and Richie can see color in his cheeks, his knuckles.

Richie nods. “You come out here to seduce me? Lookin’ like that?”

“Beep beep,” Eddie laughs, ducking his head. “The pants didn’t fit. I need a belt, maybe. I didn’t think you’d mind if I, well… just wanted to hang out for a bit.”

“Hanging indeed.”

“Richie, you little shit—“

“No, not at all. Your leg hair is safe with me.”

“For the record, I prefer briefs.” Eddie comes over and sits on the bed, just beside Richie. “More functional.”

“I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Eddie sighs, but he’s smiling.

“Sorry, I should have bought you clothes. It’s just, maybe… a part of me wasn’t a hundred percent on this plan. I mean, I banked all my lucky coins on this piggy, but,” Richie looks up at Eddie, then reaches over and almost touches his face.

Despite being covered in dried blood and smelling like iron and magic, Eddie doesn’t lean away, but Richie doesn’t want to touch Eddie with his filthy hands. He’s covered in his own blood and dirt and feeling crusty and gross.

“Richie, we still need to talk,” Eddie says, then pats his hand on Richie’s knee. “Go shower. You’ll feel better when you’re not so gross.”

“Okay… Don’t go anywhere,” Richie says, and Eddie’s hand on his knee flexes, then curls tighter.

“Richie, I promise. Just go get the blood off you.”

Richie nods, giving a soft repetition of ‘kay’ before heading for the bathroom. He starts the water and strips out of his clothes, hands shaking when he undoes his pants and realizes his boxers are practically glued to his stomach by all the blood.

He gets under the spray and watches the blood turn the water red before swirling down the drain. It’s cathartic, in a way, and Richie waits until the water is cooling down before he hastily scrubs himself down.

His fingers carefully follow over the line of knotted scar in his chest, nearly smooth and white as a strike of lightning through the fine, dark hairs on his chest. Richie’s stomach trembles, and he quickly washes himself off, making sure the water is running clear before he shuts the shower off and nearly slips on his way out.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Richie swipes a hand across the fog on the mirror, then turns his shoulders so he can inspect the scar in the reflection. It looks ancient, like his body has grown with this scar, lived with it, was  _ born _ with it, maybe. Under Richie’s fingers, the mark is cold, but the skin beside it is warmer. He lifts his hand and touches the side of his throat, and when he feels no pulse after several beats, he drops his hand and shudders.

“Okay, okay. So you gave your heart to Eddie, literally, and now… you’re a zombie?” Richie asks the mirror, then tangles his hands into his hair and pulls. “You read the fine print, you knew what you were doing. But fuck.  _ Fuck _ . You don’t have a heartbeat, Richie. How’s your blood gonna get where it’s going? Can you get boners anymore?”

Richie looks down at the towel around his waist and feels a moment of panic.

When he exits the bathroom, dressed in underwear and a shirt, Richie is rubbing a towel over his head, glasses knocked to one side. “Eds, there’s something I gotta…”

Eddie is in the bed, curled onto one side, hugging a pillow. He’s burrowed under the comforters, one foot peeking out from under the soft pink flowers.

Richie makes it to the bed in three strides, then crawls over Eddie and spoons in behind him. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s body, pulls him close and tucks his face against the back of his neck.

Eddie makes a soft sound, then reaches his hand down and tangles his fingers over Richie’s. “Sorry… ‘m just so tired.”

“It’s alright, Eds. Get some rest… We’re both tired,” Richie says, growing warm with Eddie in his arms, like the good old days. It’s different, it’s always been growing into ‘different’, but Richie doesn’t care. He just wants this moment, this closeness, and for Eddie to feel safe.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, tired, drifting.

Richie smiles, rubbing his nose against the soft hairs at the nape of Eddie’s neck. “You love it.”

Whatever Eddie means to say, it comes out like a little kitten mewl, and then his breathing evens out under Richie’s hand.

That heartbeat pulls him into a deep, satisfying sleep, all fear and worry melting under the feeling of Eddie, whole and alive, with Richie. Just like he should be.

-

_ Eddie smells like earth, cold blood and still water, and Richie can’t let him go. Hands grip his shoulder, his forearm, his belt. They bruise and tug, yanking at him as the screams of a dying world eater shake the chamber under Neibolt. _

_ “We can’t leave him, it’s dark. It’s so dark, Eddie, my Eds—“ _

_ “Richie, we have to go!” _

_ “Rich, please!” _

_ He feels his ribs twist, the dark lighting dancing off Eddie’s face as he’s pulled back. Eddie slips from his arms. _

_ “Richie,” Eddie says softly, through the blood in his mouth. _

_ “Eddie!” Richie is pulled back, the others too strong for him to fight on his own. The dust plumes, and Richie can see Eddie lifting his hand, the other still curled tightly in Richie’s jacket, and he reaches. _

_ “Rich,” Eddie chokes, and Richie’s feet dig divots in the dirt, kick stones, and he thrashes and screams. _

_ “We can’t leave him! He’s not dead, he’s not, he’s not!” _

_ “Richie, he’s gone!” Bill? Mike? Who’s screaming? They’re wrong. _

_ “Eddie!” Richie shouts, and Eddie’s hand falls, dark eyes wide and glassy as the cave shudders, quakes, and starts caving in on top of him. _

_ Richie is dragged away, kicking and crying, “He’s just hurt, guys, we—he’s not dead!” _

“Eddie!” Richie cries out, and for the first time in three weeks of the same nightmare, he flies into a warm, waiting chest, and his favorite voice in the world is frantically trying to soothe him.

“Richie, Richie, it’s okay. Hey, it’s alright, I’m right here. It’s alright—you were having a nightmare,” Eddie says quickly, hands in Richie’s hair, under the collar of his shirt.

Richie grips onto the sweatshirt so hard his fingers burn, pushing his face into Eddie’s chest and not doing a damn thing to stop his wracking sobs.

Eddie holds him close, folded up around him on the bed at the Town House, and Richie remembers.

The ritual, cutting his own chest open, grabbing Eddie’s hands, feeling his own heart beating in Eddie’s chest.

“Eds,” Richie whispers, shuddering.

“You’re alright. I’ve got you,” Eddie says gently, hugging Richie until the tension eases, the terror releasing him.

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, pulling back and wiping his nose on his sleeve. He reaches for his glasses, lying on the bed discarded. “Did I wake you?” He asks, casually scrubbing at his tear-stained cheeks and sniffling.

Eddie carefully takes Richie’s glasses from him, sliding them up Richie’s nose for him. “Kind of. I was thirsty, and when I came back—“

“You left the room?”

“I needed some bottled water.”

“Eddie, I  _ brought _ you some. You think I’m such a shitty friend?”

Eddie mumbles and ducks his head. “Uh… No. No, I just didn’t think that… you’d do that?”

“You know how many germs are in unfiltered water?” Richie says with a grin, his hands regaining some feeling. The emptiness in his chest settles, changes, and he realizes the terror of the dream is leaving, but the fact that he doesn’t have a heart is remaining.

“The minerals in tap water have a sixty percent higher chance of being—“

“Eds, shush,” Richie says, swatting at him.

“Anyway, I went to go get some water from the bar, and when I came back, you were kicking. Whining,” Eddie says.

Richie turns his face to the ceiling and shuffles to the edge of the bed. “Yeah. I do that, I guess.”

“You were calling my name.”

Richie’s ears feel like they’ve caught fire, and he closes his eyes. “I promise, it wasn’t a kinky dream. Your virtues are safe with me, Kaspbrak.”

“It definitely didn’t sound kinky. You were hurt… scared,” Eddie continues, and his fingers are warm when he curls them around Richie’s wrist. “Were you having a nightmare about that day? In the caves?”

“That’s all my nightmares are anymore, Eds.”

Eddie is quiet. He scoots over, and Richie feels everything slip into place, right where it should be, when Eddie’s arms slide around his waist. He burrows his head into Richie’s arm, his hands overlapping on Richie’s side, locking him in, keeping him close.

Richie slouches into the hold, covering Eddie’s slim wrist with one hand, ducking his head until they’re nearly cheek to cheek, his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder.

“That scar on your chest is new… Richie, whatever you did? It worked. I’m here, I’m alive because of you. You don’t have to have nightmares about me dying anymore,” Eddie says gently.

“Kind of hard to get the image out of my head. They’re different; not always the same. Not always what really happened. But I either dream about losing you… or I don’t dream at all,” Richie admits, and Eddie squeezes him a bit tighter.

“I know. I understand. We’ll work on it. It’ll just take time.” Eddie turns his head, just slightly, and Richie can feel the warmth of Eddie’s breath on his cheek. “It’s alright now, Rich.”

Richie could black right back out, his head is spinning so hard. If he turned his head, tilted his chin… Eddie’s lips are right there, his soft, smart mouth just a moment’s ounce of bravery from Richie’s.

Richie sits back, separating them enough that Eddie has to unlace his hands, but he keeps one on the small of Richie’s back. “Thanks, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that, Trashmouth.”

“My spaghetti has hurt me!” Richie makes a mock gasp of pain and falls over, and Eddie climbs on top of him, trying to get his hands on Richie’s neck.

“Don’t call me that, either!”

“Retaliation! Attack the cutie!” Richie rolls them, pinching Eddie’s cheeks and pinning one of his arms with his knee. “Cute! Cute!”

“When I get my hands—“Eddie wheezes, slapping Richie’s arm, his side, but he can’t break free of the face pinching attack that Richie has well mastered.

It feels easy—warmth and light coursing through Richie like liquid sunshine. He digs his fingers into Eddie’s ribs until he’s screaming, until Eddie has to get rough and hits Richie in the side with his knee so hard they both go flying off the bed. On the floor, Eddie gains an advantage, and he stuffs his fingers in Richie’s armpits until Richie’s laughing so hard he can’t inhale.

It’s every memory they forgot getting a second chance, the closeness between them, more than the other Losers, having never gone away.

Richie begins to feel a pressure in his chest. It’s not the weight of his heart, but it’s close. It’s growing.

When he asks Eddie to come home with him, Eddie just smiles and nods.

-

Richie thought for a moment about getting him and Eddie on a plane back to California, but his upscale condo was exactly where his manager would probably be staked out. So he resorts to his apartment in upstate New York, the brownstone that he keeps to himself for privacy, where he had been holed up for the last few weeks. Plus, driving means more time with Eddie.

The drive from Derry back to Richie’s New York escape is quiet, comfortable, and just… everything Richie never knew he needed.

Eddie sits in the passenger seat, slightly reclined, and talks about how the chance of death in a car accident increases when your seat is further back. He drops it back a bit further and puts his socked feet—Richie’s socks—up on the dash. “This? A death sentence. You’re going fifteen over the speed limit and I’m lying near vertical.”

“You don’t seem too scared by that.”

“I’ve already died once. And aside from the speeding, I trust you as a driver.”

Richie taps his thumbs on the wheel, listening to 80s rock quietly pour from the speakers under the cadence of Eddie’s voice as they drive into nightfall. A road trip with Eddie. Richie’s teenage dreams are flourishing. It’s only seven hours, but Eddie naps on and off, curled into the seat with his head tipped towards Richie. Richie has to remind himself that Eddie trusts him as a driver, to keep his eyes on the road and not glance at that pale face occasionally illuminated by passing street lights.

New York traffic is a dulled thrum, and Richie makes it to his neighborhood in record time. The trees and street lamps are a familiar comfort, and Richie realizes he’s missed them while on tour, in California, anywhere but here. Sure, he spent three weeks in his house, but alas. He was in mourning.

Richie parks along the near empty street, and he comes around and opens Eddie’s door. “My beauty,” he says, bowing at the waist.

Eddie shoves him back, then tugs at the sleeve of Richie’s shirt. “Wow… how pretty. This is nice, Rich,” Eddie says, looking up at the brownstone.

“Yeah? Thanks, I don’t have a neighbor on the right. I picked this one because I like the colors of the windowsills and trim,” Richie says, smiling. “There’s a little yard in the back—big enough for a pet rabbit. Or a rat dog.”

“I thought you were gonna take me to the Hills.”

“This was closer, and safer. Nobody’s gonna bother us here,” Richie says, climbing the steps and shuffling his keys.

“That sounds like you’re insinuating something,” Eddie says, and Richie puts his elbow in Eddie’s side.

“I’d never intrude on a lady’s sensibilities.”

Eddie follows him through the door, and Richie drops his bag and kicks off his shoes. He locks the door behind them, then pulls out his phone.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks.

“Texting Ben. He called earlier and I didn’t answer. He’ll tell Bev and she’ll have a fit if I don’t get back to him soon,” Richie says, tapping away.

“So… we’re gonna tell them, right?”

Richie looks up over his glasses. “Beg pardon?”

“About me. You were planning on telling the others, right? I mean, they all think I’m dead, and after losing Stan…” Eddie lifts a hand and waves it between them. “This is important, Richie. They need to know.”

Richie shuffles awkwardly on the balls of his feet, then walks past Eddie. He heads up the stairs, with Eddie calling behind him.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Eddie grumbles as Richie walks into his room and tosses himself onto the bed. “Richie, get up. Come on, we gotta talk about this.”

Richie holds his hand out, still face down, and Eddie groans loudly and stomps over to take it. Richie gently rubs his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles, then speaks directly into the mattress and rumpled sheets.

“What?”

Richie turns his head. “I said I want to keep you to myself forever and ever, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, and he sits down on the edge of the bed, still holding Richie’s stupid hand. “We have to tell everyone. It’s not fair to be so selfish, Rich.”

“Not being selfish. I just think I’m owed certain dues,” he says, his voice taking on a lilting British accent at the end.

“Richie, if someone else had found a way to save me, wouldn’t you want them to tell you?”

“Irrelevant.  _ I _ saved you, Eds.”

Eddie sighs, releasing Richie’s hand and flopping back on the bed. “You’re such a shit.” Eddie turns over, tucking his face into the blankets before sitting bolt upright. “God, Richie, your bed smells like sweat and Cheetos!”

Richie lifts his head. “What’s wrong with that?”

Eddie looks around the room, climbing off the bed. He trips over a discarded shoe and gapes at Richie’s boxers, socks, a sweaty shirts strewn across the floor. “Rich, the hamper is  _ right there! _ ”

“Sorry keeping my room tidy wasn’t my top priority right after you  _ died _ .”

“Get up. Come on, I don’t even want to  _ see _ the kitchen and bathroom. Come on, we need to clean this up,” Eddie says, grabbing Richie by his belt loops and tugging him hard to the end of the bed.

“Don’t make me use my safe word,” Richie says, kicking his legs to no avail. Eddie drags him to the floor, the wood smacking Richie’s ass with a painful thud.

“No safe words. You can’t escape basic hygiene,” Eddie growls threateningly.

Richie gulps. “I’m sorry… I should have cleaned before I brought you here.”

“Rich, it’s alright. But you can’t live like this—especially if you don’t have an excuse.”

“Damn, that was you. I’ve doomed myself.”

“We’ll clean up, then we’ll call the others. I want to see them.”

“But I haven’t had enough one on one Richie/Eddie time,” Richie pouts.

Eddie turns on his heel and grabs a pair of boxers Richie knows… aren’t sanitary. He throws them at Richie’s face. “I said I want to see them. Don’t you care about my happiness, you fucker?”

“Damn it, you’ve got me,” Richie says. “Oh, what a fowl way for a bird to die!”

“Up. We’ll start in here and work our way down,” Eddie says, and he pulls the sweatshirt up over his head and tosses it at the hamper. Richie tries to ignore the way seeing Eddie in a white undershirt and his loose jeans makes his stomach twist.

“…Whatever you want, Eds,” he says quietly, unable to fight the smile that overtakes his face as Eddie starts picking up dirty clothes, kicking the used tissues around the trash basket out of the way.

The simple bliss of listening to Eddie curse while he cleans makes Richie long and ache, the need to wrap Eddie in his arms and  _ squeeze _ overwhelming. But he fights it down, pleasantly taking his hamper down to the laundry room where Eddie furiously sorts and throws items around.

The bathroom is strictly Richie’s responsibility, and when he goes downstairs to tell Eddie he’s done, the sight of Eddie at the sink scrubbing dishes and muttering… Richie sulks against the wall and watches him for as long as he possibly can.

Eddie glances over his shoulder, then does a double take. “Don’t just stand there! Come clean off this table—or empty the fridge. And we need to do something about dinner.”

Richie smiles, his cheeks burning. “Okay, Eds.”

He pulls his phone out and hops into the group chat, deciding to alert everyone all at the same time.

**Group** :  _ Losers _

**Trashmouth (Me): ** hey my beloved fuckos

**Trashmouth (Me): ** if ya aren’t busy please consider coming by my place asap ( _ drop location _ )

**Trashmouth (Me): ** I have a surprise… need you guys here

Richie tilts his head up and looks at Eddie, still smiling like he can’t help it. Eddie’s in his kitchen, doing the dishes. He looks like he belongs. But Richie figures that wherever Eddie is, he belongs, if Richie is there, too. Maybe it’s the other way around. Richie could belong anywhere, if he had Eds.

His phone vibrates, dings, chimes, and Richie looks down at the screen.

**Group: ** _ Losers _

**Bev** **♥** **: ** tomorrow honey?

**Florida Man: ** Tomorrow night at the latest. You alright?

**Big Bill: ** be there in the morning Rich

**Haystack: ** b over asap (thumbs up emoji) u ok? (puppy emoji)

Richie exhales shakily. He loves his friends so fucking much, it makes it hard to breathe. He gets his shaky thumbs to settle down long enough to get out a reply.

**Trashmouth (Me): ** everythin’s alright I promise (OK emoji) 

**Trashmouth (Me): ** can’t explain on the phone tho. Love you guys

Richie stuffs his phone in his pocket and sighs, shaking out his hands. “You want me to order Chinese?”

As Eddie goes on a ramble about the trouble with ‘delivered food’ cooling on the ride, Richie falls a little more in love with him. And the empty feeling behind his ribs settles, warms, and is filled with Eddie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter, you're all so beautiful.  
Maybe six chapters now (side eye emoji)  
xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

Richie wakes to the scent of… coffee? Bacon? His stomach growls in delight, and he rolls over and twists in his sheets. “Eds?” He says softly, picking his head up off his drool-damp pillow. When he looks around his room it’s so clean he’s momentarily startled.

Sitting up, Richie remembers the events of the night before, right up until he curled up in bed and blacked out. Eddie had made himself a spot on Richie’s huge sofa, blankets and pillows and  _ you don’t wanna sleep with me, Eds? _

Richie turns over and drops his feet to the floor, yawning, stretching, feeling weirdly relaxed for someone that tossed and turned and resisted the urge to beg  _ Eddie, just come sleep with me, please, I just wanna hold you, come up here, come here _ for hours on end. The house is kinda chilly, so Richie pulls a holey sweater over his head and goes down the stairs in his boxers.

The kitchen is a burst of bright, warm light and smells, and Richie groans aloud when the scent of frying bacon punches him in his empty stomach.

Eddie turns around at the noise, currently pouring himself a cup of coffee into a chipped mug. “I was just gonna go wake you up. Jesus, you sleep hard.”

“Would have slept better with my beloved in my warm embrace,” Richie sighs wanly.

“I considered it. I was afraid you’d have a nightmare,” Eddie confesses, glancing over his shoulder at Richie. “You alright?”

“I didn’t fall asleep easily, but no bad dreams,” Richie says, strolling over and setting his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “You made me breakfast? That’s my good little Eds.”

“Shut up, it’s just bacon. Your fridge is in a state of… ludicrous depletion.”

“Shit, Eddie, not this early. Just say it’s empty.”

“It’s fucking empty, and it’s nearly nine. And I found bacon in your freezer that miraculously wasn’t expired, so… bacon.”

“I’ve got bread. You want some toast?” Richie kisses the side of Eddie’s head with a big, smacking sound, and Eddie swats at him.

“Check the date before you put it in the toaster. If the inside coils get dirty, there’s no disinfecting it.”

“Eds, it’s a toaster. It’ll burn the germs off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, dude.”

Richie’s pretty sure toast and bacon has never tasted so good, sitting at his dinky little kitchen table with his foot up on Eddie’s chair, against his thigh. He’s never felt so content, so warm and just plain  _ good _ , and Eddie hasn’t been quiet, save for taking sips of his coffee before delving back into his rants of the merits of locally roasted beans and some other bullshit Richie doesn’t understand.

His phone vibrates, and when he picks it up it’s a text from Bill.

**Big Bill** _ : just landed, buddy. Car service says be there in forty? _

Richie exhales shakily, closing his eyes.

“Rich?” Eddie says, and his fingers land on Richie’s ankle.

Richie sits upright, smiling a tight smile and picking up another piece of perfectly crispy bacon. “Bill’s on his way.”

-

Eddie goes on a rant about how they’re not ready, they don’t have a story or their facts straight, and Richie has to wrap his arm around Eddie’s neck and mildly choke him out on the floor in front of the sink to get him to settle down.

“I’ll do all the talking, and I won’t talk until they’re all here. Until then, you could hide in my bedroom?” Richie says into Eddie’s hair, Eddie’s fingers pressing the skin of his wrist bone white.

“You want me to  _ hide? _ ”

“It’ll be easier to explain you’re back with everyone here, and Bill’s the closest.”

“I’m not getting stuffed under the bed until they all show up—you fucker.”

Richie sighs, and when Eddie slaps his forearm, hard, he relents his chokehold. “Fine. But I guess we could at least have the basics laid out so that when each of them shows up, they can ask the main question.”

“Why am I not dead,” Eddie says.

Richie nods. “Then I guess I have to tell you how…”

“Yeah…”

Swallowing hard, Richie pulls the collar of his shirt down, just enough for the top of the scar to show. Eddie saw it yesterday, but Richie was covered in blood and they were both freaking out too hard to really talk about it. Now that it’s clean, Eddie’s eyes linger on the stark white slash through Richie’s tan skin and dark chest hair. Richie can’t understand the look on Eddie’s face, the way it twists and his dark eyes gleam.

“I gave something up for you… don’t ask me about it, I swear to fuck, Eds, just trust me.”

Eddie presses his lips tight, looking as fierce and frustrated as he can, curled on the floor of Richie’s kitchen.

“... Why can’t I ask?”

“It’s embarrassing? And you probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“Richie, I was dead, and now I’m not. If you told me pixies dug me up and a unicorn peed on my face, I’d accept it,” Eddie says flatly.

“Wow… I should have thought of that. Would you believe I resorted to blood magic?”

Eddie throws a hand out, and Richie catches it and pins Eddie’s fingers flat to the floor.

“I can give you the outline, but not the details… I am allowed an ounce of privacy here.”

The stern look on Richie’s face makes Eddie drop his gaze to the floor, and he nods after a few minutes.

“So… I gave something for you, and you came back. Blood was involved, that part is true, and I may or may not have cried like a small asshole,” Richie says. “There was some magic involved, and in the most un-racist way, it may have been black. Let me finish… And then I was pulling you out of the ground.”

“Black magic… is that why my face isn’t fucked up? Why the big hole in my chest isn’t even scarred?” Eddie asks flatly.

“Probably. Maybe… I don’t know, just—the power of true love was involved, okay?”

“Say that again, I’m punching you in the throat.”

Richie grabs Eddie’s cheeks in his hands and holds him still, meeting those big dark eyes carefully. “I love you, Eds. I’m just telling the truth.”

“I love you when you’re not an asshole,” Eddie mumbles.

“Then you have never loved me?”

Eddie’s warm palm covers half of Richie’s face as he shoves it away.

Richie smiles, patting one of Eddie’s cheeks. It’s easy to say it was true love. It’s easy to freely say the words ‘I love you’, because Eddie thinks he’s joking. If Richie said he really cut his own heart out just to have Eddie back, Eddie might roll his eyes at that, too. Richie feels oddly safe knowing he can tell the truth and have his words brushed off like a ‘your mom’ joke.

Eddie climbs to his feet and makes Richie follow, pulling him up carefully. “If Bill’s almost here, I’ll make some more coffee, I guess,” Eddie says, then gestures to Richie. “They’re gonna ask questions.”

Richie lifts a hand, scratching over the covered scar with a twisting feeling in his gut. Right. The big scar, the lack of heartbeat, the  _ alive Eddie _ . “I’ll be dodging those like an anti-vax mom and free flu shots.”

“You’re allowed your ounce of privacy,” Eddie echoes, almost sarcastically, and Richie feels uncomfortable about lying to him.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine,” he says instead. “I’m gonna get dressed. You do that coffee idea. We’ll just… take this one step at a time.”

Eddie nods at him, holding his hand out. Richie reaches out and twists their fingers together, remembering hundreds of walks home from school, to the arcade, the movies—endless minutes with Eddie’s small hands in his. Comfortable, easy, all levels of  _ right _ .

It feels that easy now, and Richie laughs wetly, feeling a stinging up behind his ribs rise to burn his eyes.

“Richie, you saved me. Whatever else there is… I’ve got your back,” Eddie says, giving Richie’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Richie thinks about being pushed under the surface of the murky water of the Quarry, thinks of Eddie using a socked foot to kick his glasses off his face, thinks of Eddie forcing him into a sweater because the forecast was three degrees below what Eddie considered free of the pneumonia danger zone.

Richie smiles. “I know, Eddie. I’ve got you, too.”

“No shit,” Eddie laughs, hand squeezing even tighter.

Richie lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Eddie’s knuckles, and Eddie uses the closeness to knock his fist forward, bonking Richie on the nose. “Oh, fff,” Richie hisses, pulling back, dropping Eddie’s hand. “I’mgunnasneeze.”

“Go put some pants on,” Eddie says, turning to shuffle into the kitchen. “Bring me a sweater, please.”

“YesofcoursemyEds,” Richie says, nose stinging, and he ascends the stairs and gets into his room before the tickle forces a sneeze from him. 

-

Bill’s knock on the door makes Richie startle, hard, and Eddie turns to him and touches his wrist. “Hey… it’s okay,” Eddie says, and Richie stands up, patting Eddie’s fingers until he slips free.

“Wait right here. I’ll let him in and… bring him to you.”

Eddie nods, then exhales and slaps his hands on his knees. “Fuck it.”

“Fuck it,” Richie agrees, and he heads for the door. He pulls it open and is greeted by Bill immediately crossing the threshold to hug him, dropping his bag by Richie’s feet. “Shit, Bill, it’s alright.”

“R-Rich you fucking s-s-sc…ff-fuck. Scared me,” Bill huffs, squeezing Richie hard before pushing him back, looking up at his face. “What’s w-wrong?”

“Nothing, I promise. Nothing’s wrong, really… more, it’s alright. Everything’s fine. I definitely couldn’t talk to you guys over the phone, and I couldn’t text, or skype. Uh…” Richie lifts a hand and scratches at the back of his neck. “I did something, and something happened, and somebody… someone…”

“Rich, if you k-killed a guy—“

“Holy shit, shut up! I didn’t kill anyone! Not since the space clown spider fuck.”

“Then what’s-s urgent?”

Richie takes Bill’s hand, unsure what else to do, really, and says, “I’ve never seen you faint before. Don’t start now.” He tugs Bill into the hall of the house, then pulls him abruptly into the living room, stepping to the side and throwing a hand out in the direction of the sofa.

Bill looks slightly more to the right, his eyes bright and large, mouth falling open as his handsome features twist through shock, horror, and then elation. 

Richie looks at the sofa, finds it empty, then looks over at the window by the TV, where Eddie is now standing. “You fucking moved.”

“E… E-Ed-Eddie-ie,” Bill says, and steps awkwardly around the stained coffee table, his hands grabbing Eddie by the face.

“Bill,” Eddie says, so soft Richie barely hears it. Bill’s hands are all over him, touching his shoulders, arms, his stomach and chest, everything. He’s crying, just a little, and when Eddie lifts his hands and carefully touches Bill’s elbow, Bill folds Eddie up into his arms.

Eddie looks over Bill’s shoulder, smiling at Richie as he hugs Bill back. Richie grins broadly, a warmth spreading up from his chest that comes from Eddie’s smile, Bill’s happiness, his friends being so near.

Bill steps back, smiling and laughing fondly through tears as he pats Eddie’s cheek, still startled but overwhelmed with delight.

Eddie shrugs, still smiling as well.

A moment passes, and then Bill turns to look over his shoulder, tears still glistening in his blue, glassy eyes, his cheeks flushed red. He levels a  _ look _ at Richie. “What the fuck?” 

-

It takes an hour of pleading, but Bill finally agrees to wait for the others before Richie explains. Richie does, at least, offer that he brought Eddie back and that it was most certainly Eddie, not some dark, twisted, I’ve-been-dead-and-it-fucked-me-up version of him. Bill relents to wait, but he doesn’t sit. He takes his mug of coffee from Eddie and paces while they wait for the others.

The doorbell rings, and Richie’s head whips up. He turns to Eddie, giving a little shrug, and Eddie says, “I’m not opening the fucking door.”

Bill finally sits down, wheezing, “F-fff-f-fuck.”

Richie opens the door, Beverly and Ben standing there expectantly, a rental car parked behind Richie’s.

“Hey beauties,” Richie says, and he hugs Bev, then Ben, whose hug is a bit more crushing and scented with that fancy musky-oak cologne. “Whoa there.”

Ben relents, and apologizes quietly as Richie ushers them in. 

“Uh, Bill’s here already… in the living room with the surprise.”

“Rich, if I didn’t know better, I would think we were here for an elaborate reveal of a new pet,” Bev sighs, letting Richie carefully pull her jacket from her shoulders, red hair hanging a bit longer around her shoulders than when he last saw her. She must be growing it out.

“Well… he’s kind of like a pet,” Richie says.

From the living room, Eddie calls, “Dude, fuck you.”

Bev and Ben share a look, then look at Richie expectantly. “…Richie,” Ben says, breathless, and Richie holds his hand up, gesturing for them to go on into the living room.

Ben sits down on the loveseat next to Eddie and practically drags the smaller man into his lap, and Beverly sidles up behind Eddie and wraps her arms around his waist, face pushed into his back.

“I’m sure you guys have questions, but Mike won’t be here for another two hours. Could we… wait for him?” Richie says, rocking awkwardly on his feet as he watched Bill and Bev carefully lace their fingers together across the space between the loveseat and the recliner. It’s as involved as Bill will get in the cuddle pile, considering his hands are still shaking and his speech has been reduced to ninety percent stutter.

Bev looks over Eddie’s shoulder, her cheeks rosy and streaked with tears. “You fucking did it.”

Richie smiles bashfully, feeling accused and praised at the same time. “I had to.”

“Richie, how—“Ben says against Eddie’s shoulder, and Richie tuts at him.

“Waiting for Mikey, Haystack. If Bill can handle it, so can you,” Richie scolds.

“N-n-n-not hand-l-l-ling m-mmm-m-m… much n-now,” Bill forces out, then lays his arm over the arm rest and drops his head down on it, still holding Beverly’s hand.

Richie claps his hands together. “Excellent.”

Mike arrives an hour after sundown, and his knock seems to make everyone relax and stand on edge at the same time. On the one hand, the wait is over. On the other, the Losers now expect Richie to explain what happened.

Richie claps his hands together, adjusting his over shirt before shooting Eddie a look. “Okay.”

Eddie, still very well tangled in the embrace of their other friends, nods. He looks tired, whether it’s from too much coffee or from too much love, Richie can’t tell, but it looks like a good tired. An easy, harmless tired.

The door opens for the third and final time, and Mike rocks on his feet a little when Richie hugs him. “Glad you made it,” Richie sighs, and Mike hugs him back tightly with one arm.

“No problem, Rich. The others—“

“Already here.” Richie swallows hard. “We’re all here. C’mon.”

Mike sets his bag down beside Bill’s, and Bill appears in the archway of the living room. 

“Hi, Mikey,” he says warmly, and Richie watches them fold into each other on a hug. 

“So much hugging today,” Richie says, and gives a triumphant fist pump. “I’ve succeeded in distributing the soft feelings.”

“Alright, Rich, e-everyone’s here. Can w-we…” Bill says, tipping his head towards the living room.

Richie rocks back. “Well, first, we gotta… you know. Show Mike.”

“Show me what? The surprise, right? Richie, whatever it is—“

“He’s not an  _ it _ ,” Richie says teasingly, and he steps to the side so Mike can look into the living room.

Ben has finally relinquished his hold on Eddie, but Bev clings to his arm like a sloth, and Mike staggers backwards into Bill’s chest. Bill catches him.

“Ta-da,” Richie says ceremoniously, throwing a hand in Eddie’s direction. “Lady and gents, we have gathered here today to discuss the successful resurrection of Edward Kaspbrak by the one and only, talented, handsomest Richard Tozier. Questions and comments now accepted.”

Eddie’s eyes roll back so hard it almost looks like he’s going to pass out. “Jesus fucking,” Eddie sighs, and Richie looks around at their friends, who are remarkably quiet. 

“Okay… More coffee first?”

-

The awkwardness fades after another round of coffee, the Losers gathered in the small space of Richie’s living room, dotting the couches with their hands in their laps like kids about to get scolded. 

Ben is the first to speak up, looking from Eddie beside him on the loveseat to Richie. “Are you both okay?”

Richie contemplates that for a minute, nods, then glances at Eddie. “You?”

“Aside from being dead, yeah. It’s all sort of a blur… I remember you guys, and the cave. I, uh… I remember getting stabbed, saving Richie.” Eddie looks up at Richie, who’s sitting in the recliner across the room. Bev is still holding Eddie’s hand, on the arm rest of the sofa, like she can’t let him go.

Richie shrugs. “I can’t believe you fucked my mother.”

Eddie smiles, ducking his head quickly. “I didn’t actually fuck your mom, you asshole.”

“But after all the times I fucked yours, now we’re even—wait, what?”

Eddie throws a nearly flat pillow at him, and Richie catches it.

“So, what happened exactly?” Mike asks.

Richie slouches back gesturing to Eddie. “I had to get him back. I mean, there was nothing I wouldn’t do, and I found a way—an easy way.”

“A safe way?” Beverly asks critically. 

“Safe was irrelevant,” Richie replies with just as much criticality. 

“Richie, just show them,” Eddie says, his eyes dancing from Richie’s face down to his chest.

Richie levels him a look. “Uh, I didn’t think that was part of this little workshop.”

Eddie frowns at him, so deeply Richie feels it cutting into his belly, a sour feeling that makes Richie feel scolded and… well, like he’s disappointed Eddie.

He gets up from the recliner, hands shaking. “I still have the right to some privacy, right?”

“Yeah. Whatever you want, Rich,” Eddie says, and Bill levels him with a look.

“There’s a loop here we aren’t in,” Bev says quietly.

“There’s a lot of loops,” Mike replies, looking at Richie.

Richie fusses with his collar, and Eddie nods gently.

“Rich,” Ben says, brows furrowed up tight, pleading, and if he wasn’t so damn handsome Richie could ignore it.

But he doesn’t. He turns to Eddie, who’s looking up at him, big dark eyes shining. Richie looks at Bill, Mike, and Bev, and then reaches up to grab the collar of the shirt under his button down. He pulls it down, hard, and four of his friends gasp almost in tandem.

“You guys rehearse that?” He asks.

Beverly steps forward and grabs his shirt, hands shaking as her fingers touch along the edge of the knotted scar on his chest. “Richie, what did you do?”

“What I had to. I fucking had to, Bev,” he says, her fingers warm and her eyes stern when she looks up at him.

Bill has his hands in his hair, looking from the long gash to Eddie’s face. “This… th-th-this is how y-you’re back.”

Eddie looks down at his hands, guilt and irritation warring for the main expression on his face. 

Ben’s beside Beverly then, looking over her shoulder, one hand reaching out to touch his thumb to the scar. “This isn’t days old… this is…  _ years. _ Richie, what happened?”

“I did some reading, fucking miraculously. You know there’s a whole lot of shit out there that’s weirder than what happened to us when we were fuckin’ kids?” Richie says, twisting away. He can’t stand the way their eyes are seeing through him, or worse, only seeing the scar. 

Mike frowns, coming around Bill to kneel in front of Eddie. “Eddie… You really are Eddie, aren’t you?”

Eddie nods. “Sure as shit I am.”

Mike looks back over his shoulder, up at Richie. “What did you read?”

Richie shrugs. “Something of yours.”

Bill kicks at Mike. “You g-gave him-m something?”

“No, he  _ took _ something.”

“Bingo,” Richie says. “Like you and the Natives.”

“Hey, that was different.”

“So I took a few books, you didn’t notice.” He points to his chest. “Some weird shit that looked like how we killed Pennywise. Except, maybe not. Some of it was hard to read, Google translate helped, though.”

“Y-y-you used Google translate to b-bring Eddie back from—”

“The dead,” Richie growls, rounding on Bill. “Yeah, the fucking dead, because he was gone. Eddie fucking died, and I had to do something, I fucking  _ had _ to.”

Bill looks down, and Mike takes over. “The book, Richie. Where’s the book?”

“It’s safe.” Richie throws a hand up.

Mike’s frown could be seen from space.

“There’s some stuff in there you guys don’t need to read! Okay? I am allowed a certain amount of privacy here. The point is, Eddie’s back. I got him back,  _ I _ fucking did that!” Richie snaps, shoving through his friends to grab Eddie by the back of his neck. “I didn’t even wanna leave you down there, Eds, you know that.”

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist, not pushing away, not pulling him closer. Just holding. “I know, Richie.”

“And I got you back. Me. Fucking Richie did that.”

“You did. You did, okay? I’m here, everything’s fine,” Eddie says, tilting his head back to look at Beverly. “I don’t seem like a zombie, do I?”

Bev frowns. “Honey, that’s not the point.”

“Richie could have asked for help,” Ben says.

“Or told us what was happening.” Mike sighs. “The point is, we aren’t mad or upset because you’re back. We can’t lose anybody else, ever again.”

Richie lets Bill’s arm slide around his waist, and he sighs heavily. “Sorry… I was just thinking… just thinking of Eddie, I guess.”

“Your u-u-usual mindset,” Bill teases.

There’s a second, and Richie makes a loud noise of agreement, then everyone is laughing. He’s not sure where it starts, but arms start circling, faces pressing to necks, and Eddie’s up against his chest, sandwiched in tight by Ben’s big body, and Mike’s behind him, Bill took bony against his side, Bev smelling sweet and warm, everything warm and right because everyone’s here.

The hug dissipates slowly, nobody really ready to let go, and gentle hands linger on shoulders and wrists. Bev’s chin rests on Eddie’s shoulder, and Mike is still hugging Bill, solo style. “Jeez. Fuck, it’s late. I uh… I didn’t realize how late it was,” Richie says, lifting a hand and carefully rubbing at his stinging eye. Fuck if he’s going to cry right now, just because he’s in a room with all the people he loves, minus just one.

Bill nods. “T-time zone changes. An-n-ybody tired?”

“Exhausted. But in a good way,” Ben says, his hand clapping onto the back of Eddie’s neck.

“Bushed,” Mike exhales.

“You guys should stay here. I mean, unless you got hotels or something, I’ve got plenty of room, and--”Richie starts, quickly despite how he wants to appear calm.

Bev smiles, reaching out and taking his hand. “Honey, of course we’ll stay.”

“Yeah, not like any of us had time to book a hotel,” Mike says.

Richie shrugs. “Excellent. A sleepover.”

“We’re n-not gonna lie on the living room f-f-floor in sleeping bags, Rich,” Bill says, shaking his head with a smile.

“Why the hell not?” Richie gawks.

Eddie smiles, taking Richie’s hand in his. “We can bunk upstairs. The guest room is big enough for Ben’s long legs,” he says, gesturing to Ben and Beverly. “No funny business in there.”

“Yeah, you too, you two,” Bev laughs, tousling Richie’s hair.

Richie’s stomach twists, and he laughs an ugly laugh and swats at her. 

“Mike? Couch for y-you?” Bill asks, gesturing to the nice sofa.

Richie waves a hand at them. “Nah, there’s a second guest room, if you guys wanna share. I got the house furnished all king sizes, if I, you know… didn’t make it up the stairs, for some reason or… other.”

Mike laughs. “Trashmouth said ‘furnished’.”

“Hey, I can say lots of big grown-up words,” Richie says, letting Eddie lead him towards the stairs. “Bathroom’s down the hall, help yourselves to anything you like in the kitchen. Bevvie, you guys wanna do the second floor?”

“Sure, hold on,” Bev says, and Ben picks up their bags.

Richie was humming with life when he flopped onto his bed, hardly tired at all anymore. His friends were all in his house, Eddie was brushing his teeth in Richie’s pajamas, and he just… Well,  _ hummed _ .

Eddie smacks his thigh, and Richie rolls over, tugging the blanket back so Eddie can climb in. Eddie nestles into the thick comforter, pulling one of the spare pillows down so he can hug it.

“Wow, I wish I was that pillow. You gonna smooch me like that, Eddie?” Richie asks, stuffing his legs under the blanket and scooting as close to Eddie as he can.

Eddie makes a snorting sound. “I’m not smooching the pillow.”

“But we could spoon, perchance.”

“If you want to.”

Richie blinks.

Eddie, alarmed by the quiet, blinks back at him, his big dark eyes making that empty space behind Richie’s ribs fill and warm again. “What?”

“I just… I’m surprised you’d let me spoon you. Willingly. Without me having to wrap you in saran.”

“Richie, you’re not dipped in ebola. And if it makes you feel better, then I wouldn’t mind. I don’t want you to have nightmares,” Eddie says. He reaches across the small space between their pillows and curls his fingers over Richie’s hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be your big spoon.”

“Hm? Oh, no. No, certainly not, you’re like three feet shorter than me.”

“Five nine is fucking average, you asshole.”

“See how angry you got so quickly? Because you are so small. Only room for anger.”

Eddie quickly stuffs his hand under the comforter and pinches Richie’s stomach, making him squirm and kick. “I’m average height!”

“You’re little spoon!”

The pinching continues, with Richie’s sides burning from squealing and thrashing, Eddie somehow more powerful under the cover of nightfall. Eventually, Eddie manages to get Richie to be still, and from somewhere in the house, Mike yells, “You two done?!”

Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing a smacking kiss to his temple.

“If I had this every night for the rest of forever, I could die happy,” Richie says quietly, and Eddie’s fingers twist in the front of his shirt.

“Rich?”

Richie sighs. “All my friends in the same house, like some big family… Your cold feet up against my legs. It’s dream-come-true material.”

“You dream about my cold feet?”

“I dream of buying you the finest socks in all of England,” Richie says, his voice lilting British, and Eddie pushes his face away, ducking his own head down against Richie’s shoulder. 

“You’re so stupid.”

“I’m  _ your _ stupid,” Richie corrects.

Eddie shuffles in deeper, and Richie’s instinct draws his arms tighter around those shoulders, one hand lingering on Eddie’s waist. “Unfortunately for me,” Eddie sighs, his voice soft, the arm around Richie’s waist tightening.

Richie smiles, the weight of Eddie holding him to the mattress filling him with the kind of tired he hadn’t felt in weeks. The good kind, the safe, heavy kind of tired that promised black out slumber until the body was satisfied.

One of Eddie’s hands remains tugging lightly at Richie’s shirt, and the other worms around to the small of his back, fingers tucked lightly under the hem of the fabric.

“Eddie… If you wanna get to second base--”

“Go the fuck to sleep, Richie.”

Richie grins. “Love you.”

Nothing, Richie thinks. Nothing could ruin this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare to ~dream~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes some angst guys, I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, idk about this chapter... it feels shit to me, maybe because I felt like shit writing the angsty parts, it's been a while for me. Please enjoy <3
> 
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

_ “We can’t leave him down here, I won’t!” _

_ Richie feels the bruises press into his skin, familiar with their placement. He feels Bill’s fingers under his, prying him away from Eddie. _

_ “Richie, come on!” _

_ “He’s gone!” _

_ Ben’s hand bruises his arm, pulls at his waist and drags. _

_ “Please, please just let me take him!” Richie’s crying, his heels sticking in the edges of sharp rocks, Eddie cold and pale and still. If Richie could just carry him out of this horrible place, if he could just— _

_ “Richie, enough!” A voice snaps, familiar, though Richie’s never heard it before. _

_ He stops his struggle, a new hand, colder than the others, is on his arm, and when he twists, he meets dark curls and pale, sharp eyes. _

_ “Stan,” he murmurs, and the cave gives an angry shake. _

_ Richie is taken off guard by the sight of Stanley, close and real and all grown up and not dead—it’s enough. The others yank him back, and Richie twists his head back around, his arms pawing at the empty air as the cave starts to crumble with Eddie inside. _

Richie wakes with a sharp inhale, his hands clammy and the back of his neck wet. He feels cold, aching all over. The emptiness in his chest feels more like a weight, and Richie lifts a hand and drags it down his face.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “ _ Fuck _ .”

There’s a little noise beside him, like he’s squashed a kitten, and Richie’s eyes fly back open, his head tilting down sharply.

Eddie is stirring, still curled against Richie’s side like he was when they fell asleep, the morning light soft through the windows. Eddie cracks his eyes open, looking around for a moment before he finds Richie’s face.

“Y’okay?” Eddie says softly, lifting his hand from Richie’s stomach to touch his jaw.

Richie is frozen for a second, still struggling to breathe. After a fucked up dream like that, he’s used to his heart pounding out of his chest. Instead, he feels this heavy nothing, and it’s suffocating. Carefully, he reaches out and presses his hand to Eddie’s neck, feeling the pulse under his palm beating strong and slow.

Exhaling, Richie drops his head back down, and wraps his arm around Eddie, twisting until he can hold Eddie in his arms and breathe a bit slower. “Yeah… Yeah, Eds, I’m okay. Sorry.”

“Bad dream?” Eddie mutters, his arm tightening across Richie’s waist.

Richie closes his eyes. “… I dunno.”

-

Falling back to sleep after that is easy with Eddie in his arms, but Richie’s slumber is interrupted yet again by the excited clamoring downstairs.

There’s the clinking of cups and spoons, Bev’s laugh and Ben and Mike arguing.

Richie lifts his head and then grabs Eddie’s hand to lift it, reading the watch on his wrist. It’s a bit after nine, and Richie’s stomach is definitely ready to be awake, even if he just wants to lie in bed with Eddie all fucking day, thank you.

There’s a little knock on the doorframe, and Bill’s head pokes in. “M-mm-morning.”

Richie smiles. “Mornin, Billiam.” He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, and Eddie rolls over onto his stomach trying to chase him.

“There’s orange juice n-n-and breakf-fast s-stuff downstairs. B-Ben went out.”

“He would, wouldn’t he? The handsome asshole,” Richie grumbles, rubbing his eyes fiercely before putting his glasses on.

Bill smiles warmly at him, and the soft set of his mouth and the warmth in his pale eyes makes Richie pause.

“What the fuck?”

Shaking his head, Bill flips a hand at him. “N-nothing, Rich.” Bill ducks and turns around, and Richie hears his footsteps fade down the stairs before he sits up a bit.

Eddie’s arm is still around him, and Richie looks down at his gorgeous love sprawled across his bed. Eddie’s hair is a mess, a fucking mess, and his brows are furrowed like he’s concentrating very deeply.

Richie smiles, his chest filling with that now familiar pressure that is all love for Eddie, and he uses his thumb to smooth the wrinkles out of Eddie’s forehead.

Eddie groans.

“Come on, beautiful. Ben got us breakfast.”

The sound Eddie makes is both vengeful and adorable, and he burrows his face into Richie’s side. “I’m starving. Bring me the food.”

“No, we must go sit with our pals and revel in the comradery and chum-ship.”

“Shh,” Eddie says, and Richie is overwhelmed with love.

“Please, Eddie, we like didn’t eat at all yesterday, and now I need to take care of you. Ben brought us real breakfast things—and orange juice. Fuckin’ OJ.”

Eddie rolls over and slaps his hand firmly against Richie’s face. “You think I want fucking orange juice more than sleep?”

Richie mulls this over. “Absolutely.”

Eddie opens one eye, his mouth a deep, horrible frown. “Fuck you.”

“Yes, get up.”

Richie trots down the stairs animatedly, and is pulled into Mike’s side and into the conversation. He is handed a plate of eggs, toast, a beautiful potato fry up, and a glass of orange juice. Bev looks gorgeous, as usual, with her hair pulled back and a shirt that is clearly Ben’s hanging off one shoulder.

Bill is talking about his new book, something about how it’s going to be about the seven of them, and Richie thinks of his dream, and of Stan. And, worst of all, how he’s not here.

Eddie comes down the stairs a few minutes later, his hair a bit disheveled and his face flushed.

Ben cups his face and presses a smacking kiss to one of his cheeks, and Eddie groans at his coffee breath. Bev kisses his cheek in the same spot, and Eddie slumps into a chair and then lets his head fall back against Richie’s abdomen.

“I’ve never felt so tired in my life,” Eddie says quietly. “I’ve woken up at six a.m. every morning for the past twenty years.”

“Gross, you fucking nerd,” Richie says, taking the plate Bill serves up and handing it to Eddie.

“Some people wake up early, Rich,” Mike says, then shrugs. “I do.”

“You’re a fucking librarian. You’ve gotta wake up the books.”

Eddie and Ben laugh at that, and Richie fusses with his toast and thinks about how his house smells better, feels warmer, and how everything feels…  _ great _ .

Everybody gets dressed after breakfast, and the living room is warm and loud with everyone talking, sitting close together, Richie’s entire body buzzing with energy. He feels like they should all go on a hunt for some pirate treasure or Narnia or something.

“Eddie, it’s so weird… having you back? It’s… it feels so normal,” Bev says quietly, smiling at Eddie.

Eddie looks at the others, each of them taking a moment of his focus before he looks at Richie. And Richie just smiles at him so bright, Eddie can’t help but smile back. “Yeah… Clearly, I’m an important member of the Loser’s Club.”

Everyone else laughs, and Richie gets up and gently smacks Eddie’s cheek. “Hey, Bill, you leave in the morning?”

“Yeah. S-sorry, I have work. I took as many days as I c-could,” Bill says, frowning like he’s told Richie he wants a divorce.

“Hey, no worries. Just glad you all made it, right? So fucking glad,” Richie says, and Bev pats his arm.

“Yeah. I still hope you guys can all come down to Florida, see the new place. It would be great,” Mike says.

“Hell yeah,” Ben says, grinning.

“Yeah, Mm-Mikey, sounds great,” Bill says.

Richie downs the last of his second glass of orange juice. “Here here, I say. Fucking jolly good. Another gathering of the Loser’s Club shall commence henceforth a fortnight from now… Roughly.”

Mike smiles up at Richie so bright Richie could just kiss him.

“Well… I should probably go home soon,” Eddie says, and Ben’s eyes flick from Richie to Eddie in a snap.

The entire mood of the room shifts, something bitter and cold covering Richie’s skin.

He tilts his head, just slightly. “…What?”

“I mean, you know. Get back to my life? I have a job, and a wife—“

Richie makes a sound, sharp and unintentional, and his hand flies to the back of the couch for support. Bev’s hand covers his. He exhales, slow and straining. “Wh… what?”

Bill grabs Eddie’s shoulder and gives a tight squeeze. “E-d-ddie, you… You’ve been g-gone for three weeks. You don’t have a job. O-o-or a-a…” He looks at Richie, eyes bright blue and glassy.

Laughing, Richie straightens up, swatting at Ben’s hand when he reaches for him for support. “Eds, you’re free, buddy. You’ve basically been cut free from the mortal coil, my dude!”

“That’s not exactly how it works, Richie,” Eddie says, brows furrowing. “I had— _ have _ a life. Responsibility. Whether I died or not, you brought me back.”

“Yeah, but… not for  _ that _ ,” Richie says, exasperated. There’s something needling at him, deep inside, something that feels dangerously close to skin splitting under an old pocket knife.

Eddie literally rolls his eyes. “Look, clearly we have different ideas about adulthood and morals, but you guys called Myra and told her I died? She’s probably inconsolable.”

Beverly and Mike share a look, one that implies the thought of Richie being the definition of inconsolable.

“Please, she just complained when Mike called her. All she did was talk shit—she wasn’t even upset,” Richie growls, thinking of how Myra fucking  _ Kaspbrak _ had started on about how this was all Eddie’s fault, how could he do this to her, what about  _ her, her, her _ .

“Rich, it may have seemed that way, but… she’s difficult. Different.”

“I think I’ve met your mother plenty of times to know exactly who she is, Edward,” Richie snaps.

“Richie,” Bev says sharply, quietly.

Eddie levels his dark eyes at Richie. “What the fuck did you say?”

“I said you married your fucking mother. And she didn’t give a damn about what happened or how you died.”

“Fuck you, Richie. You don’t know shit,” Eddie says, voice flinty as he shakes Bill off of him. He stomps over to Richie, and despite being the smaller of the two, Richie almost feels compelled to take a step back. “Just because you brought me back from the fucking dead doesn’t mean you can just make my choices for me or talk shit about the life you haven’t been a part of.”

“Yeah, well whose fault is that? I brought you back because I couldn’t do anything else, Eddie. After everything,  _ everything _ , you’re gonna run back to your shit, boring job and your shit, abusive wife?”

Eddie gets on his toes, a motion that brings their faces so close together that under  _ any _ other circumstances, Richie would want to kiss Eddie’s face. 

“Fuck you, Richie,” Eddie says again.

“That all you got?”

Eddie wheels around, fists clenched, and stomps over to the door. He grabs Richie’s jacket off the back of the dining room chair, everyone standing, the living room filled with a sudden cacophony of voices saying ‘Eddie stop, Eddie come on, Eddie what the hell are you doing?’

Richie feels the sting splitting him, pulling him, and Eddie mutters a quiet, vehement, ‘fuck this’ right at the door, grabbing the knob and yanking.

The action tears something in Richie wide and deep, and he can’t fight the scream that suddenly scratches out of his throat.

“Richie!” Bev screams, and she catches his arm as he collapses to his knees, hands shaking. He tries to press over his chest, his eyes squeezing shut, sweat beading along his forehead and soaking his neck as he gasps for breath like his lungs are being clawed open.

“R-r-r-Rich,” Bill gasps, kneeling beside him, and Mike is there, too, the three of them checking over Richie like they expect to find something physically hurting Richie.

Richie blinks through tears, pathetic noises whining out of him as he loses feeling in his legs, and he thinks of a line of text, a warning that he didn’t think he needed to be warned for. The room gets white and static at the edges, and the sound in Richie’s head gets louder and louder until it’s a roar that is as deafening as silence.

Ben looks frantically from Richie crumpled on the floor to Eddie at the door, frozen in the spot, looking at Richie with wide eyes and a look of horrified shock across his features. Ben rushes him, grabbing Eddie by the arm and yanking him away from the door. He kicks it shut, wheeling them around despite Eddie’s struggle. Ben’s bigger, stronger, and more determined to stop Richie’s pain than Eddie is to leave.

With Eddie removed from the threshold, Richie feels the pain subsiding, reducing to an ache that could keep him from sleeping, from eating, from wanting to move. But he can breathe again.

He sucks in violent lungfuls of air, the tears rushing down his face subsiding as the cacophony in his head turns to a low ringing, the vacuum of the storm passing.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck _ ,” Richie gasps, lifting a hand to scrub pathetically at his wet face.

Bev brushes the damp hair back from his face, saying quietly, “Richie, honey, it’s okay. You’re alright.”

Bill and Mike look at one another, and Bill very carefully pinches the collar of Richie’s shirt and pulls it down, just a little. An inch of the scar is exposed, and they watch as the angry, red flesh beats, like a heartbeat, vibrant crimson, before slowing and paling to snow-white once again.

“Richie, I need to see that book,” Mike says, a hand folded securely around Richie’s knee.

Richie exhales, his hands shaking as he tries to sit up. He looks at Eddie, who is still caught somewhere between horror and rage. But when their eyes meet, Eddie defiantly glares down, chin jutting out, and Richie closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it.

“…Okay. Fine, okay, Mikey.”

Eddie elbows Ben in the abdomen, and while it doesn’t hurt, Ben does release him. “Eddie, you can’t go,” Ben warns lowly.

Eddie points at Richie. “Oh, so every time something bad happens to him it’s my fault? This is my fault? I’m supposed to just, what? Fuck everything else because Rich—“

“Richie is your best friend, and he risked his life to save you. Consider that maybe you owe him a little bit more gratitude and less of this bullshit animosity. None of us know what he did or what happened, but Richie is the one that brought you back. And I think you saw as well as we did that you fucking off back to your old life? Might physically kill him.”

Eddie at least has the wherewithal to look ashamed, and his eyes find the floor as Ben snatches the jacket from him, then turns to the door and locks it.

-

Richie’s place has a small back porch that leads down into a tiny yard, narrow and fenced back to the alley, which is only big enough for a trash truck to drive through before the next backyard fence starts.

He sits on the steps, Bill and Ben watching Mike read the text from the leather bound book.

“This is Khanota,” he had said. “As ancient as they come.”

“Neat-o,” Richie had replied, to which Bill had given him a swat to the back of the head.

Currently, Bill was chewing at his thumb, watching Mike intently enough that Richie felt he didn’t have to.

“This is the ritual?” Mike asks, and he points to the image of the hand holding a heart. Richie’s blood has darkened over the days, but still looks red in the tea-colored paper. He nods. “Yeah… that makes sense.”

“Wh-w-what’s it say?” Bill asks.

“A sacrifice. The one performing the ritual gives their heart to resurrect the lost loved one,” Mike says. “And before you ask, I mean literally.”

Richie covers his face with one hand. “As literal as you can be.”

“You cut your heart… out,” Ben says, very softly, from behind him.

“I cut out my heart,” Richie says, easy as all fuck because it was. “I cut out my heart… and I gave it to Eddie.”

Ben looks like he’s going to be sick, and Bill stutters over something about twenty times before giving up with a solid  _ fuck. _

“The ritual required sacrifice… life-force. It required something… very personal. I gave Eddie my heart, and it brought him back. It closed the fucking hole in his chest, and it took back the decay of three weeks of him being dead. And there were warnings, about binding, about some other shit, but I… I didn’t care.”

Mike points to a line of text, written in red ink instead of black. Beside the words is a small square image, like a stamp. Inside the square is a skull. “Did you look at this? Did you translate this and think, ‘oh no, this is all fine’?”

“No, I translated it and decided I didn’t care. Literally no fucks to give, Mikey.”

“Richie, this is serious. This… you, wait. You read this?” The irritation and concern on Mike’s face melts into confusion, and then something close to horror. “Richie, you know what this says?”

Richie shrugs. “I basically memorized the chapter.”

Bill gets up from his seat on the stairs and grabs the book, looking at the incoherent letters forming words. “What’s it say? M-mmm-Mike, what is it?”

Mike sighs, holding his hand out, gesturing to Richie. “Richie gave his heart up to save Eddie. That’s the ritual—the sacrifice. Richie’s heart is Eddie’s now.”

“Yeah, makes s-sense.”

Richie scratches absently at the raised line of the scar under his shirt.

“No, Bill, there’s more. This ritual, it’s very dependent on Eddie staying by Richie’s side. Richie’s heart is literally in Eddie’s chest—he needs Eddie to live,” Mike says. He points at the skull. “This is a warning. A threat of death if abandoned by the one the heart is now bound to.”

“Bound… So, Richie gave up his h-heart. It’s Eddie’s now, and s-s-so… s-so, if Eddie leaves Richie,” Bill trails off, then looks at Richie, Mike’s gaze following also.

Richie holds his arms out. “Oh well.”

“Richie, we didn’t want to lose Eddie but it happened. Now if we lose you, what are we supposed to do?” Mike snaps.

“Ben, you’re mighty quiet back there,” Richie says, tipping his head back until he can see Ben, upside down, beside the door. “Help me out. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

Ben’s crossed arms flex minutely, and he looks at Bill.

Bill glares at him.

“Shut up, you know he’s got a point,” Ben says.

“Ben, you can’t support this,” Mike says sternly, and Ben gives a little shrug.

“We just have to keep Richie and Eddie together so we don’t lose one or the other again. It doesn’t sound like an incredibly difficult task to me.”

Richie points at him. “My man Haystack.”

“But,” Ben says, voice low and rough.

“Oh,” Richie says, frowning.

“This was risky. Dangerous. You should have told us about it, or at least one of us. It only worked because it was you and Eddie, and I don’t know what we would have done if we lost you.” Ben holds a hand out. “If you had fucked up, we wouldn’t have known. If Eddie came back wrong, you wouldn’t have known how to fix him. It worked, but you knew the risks, and you should have calculated a bit better. You should have thought about your other friends, too.”

Richie’s frown deepens and he sulks forward, elbows on his knees. “…I’m sorry. I just… missed him so much. Too much. I had to do it, I need him.”

“Richie,” Bill says, stooping down, putting his hands on Richie’s. “We understand how much y-y-you love Eddie. B-but we can’t lose anything else.”

“I didn’t think the little shit would wanna go back to his old life. Fuck, I thought…” Richie pulls his hands out of Bill’s grasp and tangles them into his hair. “I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted him back.”

“Well he’s here now,” Mike sighs. “We’re gonna keep him here. Both of you.”

The door creaks, and Ben tips his head up as Beverly comes out onto the porch. She passes him and steps down the stairs, just enough so when she sits she’s touching knees with Richie. She looks at him, but he doesn’t lift his head, even though he can feel that judgmental burning in his skin. She glances at Mike, who very simply explains the ritual, and what Richie did.

Richie is close to shaking out of his skin, Bev quietly assessing the words for what feels like an eternity. 

“Eddie doesn’t know anything. He thinks Richie did some black magic and brought him back from the dead,” Bev says, looking at Bill, then Mike. “Eddie doesn’t know the half of it.”

“Then w-we tell him,” Bill states.

“Get him to understand the situation. We explain the ritual and the rules, we protect Eddie and save Richie. We keep them both together, neither of them gets hurt,” Ben agrees confidently, and Richie finally lifts his head.

“No.”

“No?” Mike groans.

“Richie,” Bev starts, and he turns to her and smiles.

“If something bad happened to Ben, you’d save him,” he says without hesitation, without doubt. “You’d do it even if there were consequences for you. Because you love him.”

“I do,” Bev says instantly, and Ben shuffles behind them. “But Richie, he  _ knows _ that.”

His smile softens, and Richie lifts his hand and pulls off his glasses. “But Eddie doesn’t need to know. I just wanted him back. I didn’t want to leave him in that place… He’s out, he’s safe. Any time I get to spend with him before… before anything bad happens? That’s just a bonus.”

“You’re not gonna tell him,” Ben says, not asking. “About the ritual’s rules, the warnings, or about how you feel.”

“Hey, he knows I love him. I love all of you,” Richie says.

Bill rises to stand, slowly relinquishing his fight. He can’t win. “But you love h-him differently.”

It’s weird, how Eddie dying made it seem okay to talk about Richie always being in love with him. It’s weird how his friends all knew and never said anything, like they were helping Richie keep a secret, even from himself. Like they were protecting him.

Now, those floodgates are gone, and there’s nothing between Richie and the realization that everyone knows, has always known. Quite clearly, everyone but Eddie.

Richie shrugs. “It’s all the same in the end. I think.” He looks down at his hands, and Bev loops her arm through his and lays her head on his shoulder. It feels like being in the water, back at the Quarry, but this time, Richie feels hopeful, not broken. “Anyways, I just… I wanted you guys to see him. You know, I didn’t want it to be a secret. You love him, too. So let’s just… get the time we have and not worry about the other shit.”

“Richie, the ‘other shit’ is your life,” Mike tries.

Bev turns her head and presses her lips to his cheek before ducking her face again, hugging his arm tighter. She doesn’t say anything else.

Ben pushes off the wall and sighs. “Alright. So, what’s Eddie gonna do?”

Richie shakes his head. “I don’t know…”

“You saw how he was earlier. He panicked when he saw Richie like that,” Mike says.

“Yeah, but it didn’t exactly stop him. He said he felt like he was a hostage,” Ben says, exasperated. “Might have helped if I wasn’t holding him still, though.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Richie says, smiling. “It’s alright, guys. Seriously.” He tilts his head sideways, resting his cheek on top of Beverly’s head.

Mike steps closer to Bill, stooping down until he’s closer to Richie, and then he lifts his hand.

Richie gives a tiny nod.

Fingers steady, Mike’s hand is warm when it presses against his chest, over the scar, and Richie watches the storyline of Mike’s understanding shift his facial expression several times. “It’s really gone. It’s not in there.”

“It was pretty fucking horrifying to watch. You guys should’ve come—we could’ve made a day of it.”

“Rich, you don’t have a heartbeat,” Mike whispers.

“…It’s Eddie’s now. Like it always was,” Richie says without hesitation, without fear, and Mike hooks an arm around his neck and hugs him.

A moment later, Bill’s arm is around his waist, and Ben’s warmth is draped against his back. It’s like the Quarry all over again, but this time Richie has Eddie just inside, just out of reach but alive and safe. And he has his friends that he loves more than anything holding him, forcing warmth and love into his skin.

“Am I interrupting something?” Eddie’s voice calls from the doorway, and the boys all unfold themselves from Richie, Bev sticking close.

“Yes, I was proposing to them all in tandem,” Richie says, turning to look over his shoulder at Eddie. “They respectfully declined.”

Eddie shifts on his feet, fingers scratching at the doorframe. “Uh… can we talk?”

Richie swears his heart skips a beat, but maybe it’s just the chemical reaction of Eddie wanting a moment alone with him. “Yeah… Yeah, of course, Eds.”

Eddie watches the others get up, making their way back into the house. Ben waits by the door, taking Beverly’s hand when she gets close enough, and she presses a lingering kiss to Eddie’s cheek before slipping past him.

Richie gestures to the porch beside him, and Eddie comes down the steps and sits beside him. He looks down at his hands, trim nails and faded callouses, and then says softly, “I don’t want to leave you, Richie.”

Richie’s eyes widen, his lips part, and he turns away from Eddie to hide every warring emotion he’s feeling.

“Something… feels wrong, when I think about it. Everything gets all hot, and I feel nauseous and scared, and it feels like something’s going to break my ribs.” Eddie curls his hands to separate fists, then relaxes them again. “Seeing you in pain like that… was that because of what you did? Bringing me back?”

Richie shakes his head. “No, it was because I didn’t want you to leave me.”

“Don’t lie to me, Rich. Please.”

After a moment, Richie turns his head, and he’s closer to Eddie than he thought, those big, dark eyes shining up at him. “…Yeah. Yeah, it kind of was.”

Eddie nods, quiet and understanding. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said, and for… hurting you, especially.”

“Hey, you’ve got a life to live, Eddie. Can’t let some guy you haven’t seen in like twenty years ruin that,” Richie says dryly.

“Rich, I wouldn’t have a life if it wasn’t for you. I mean, I was dead. I died,” Eddie says, then laughs shortly. “I fucking died.”

“Hey, I got you back,” Richie snaps, turning to Eddie and grabbing his shoulder. His fingers curl all the way around it, and he’s reminded again that Eddie is so small, so soft and good. “It’s alright, Eddie. I would have done whatever it took. I  _ did _ .”

“I just… is there something else? Something you’re not telling me?” Eddie asks, brows furrowed up as he reaches over and puts his hand on Richie’s knee. “Rich…”

Richie smiles, swallows the burn in his throat. “Nah. I told you, the power of true love.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and then, softly, a smile curls his mouth. “You’re so fucking stupid.” He turns his head and rests it against Richie’s shoulder, the closeness forcing Richie’s hand to slide from one shoulder to the other, his arm moving around Eddie easily. 

“…I do love you, Eddie,” Richie murmurs, turning his face into Eddie’s hair and closing his eyes.

“I know, Trashmouth,” Eddie replies, thumb brushing over Richie’s thigh absently.

Richie laces their fingers together and squeezes Eddie’s hand. “If you gotta go, then… you gotta. I just… I brought you back, thinkin’… you’d wanna stay with me.”

Eddie’s face crumples, and he drops his head down against Richie’s shoulder. “Rich, of course I want to stay… It’s just—I have responsibilities. This me that I am now? The one that remembers everything? He’s not the guy I’ve been. And… I at least have to put that Eddie to rest, before this one can be the real Eddie again. I mean, I have to be able to live a normal life.”

Richie nods, tilting his face away again. The night air is cool and dry, and his glasses get a little misty when he feels the tears building up. He pulls his glasses off and sets them down. “I get it. I guess.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah… No. Not one fucking bit.” Richie inhales hard. “Eds, you have no obligation to that old life. This is you; this is where you belong. You’re a Loser.”

“Yes, I am.” Eddie sits up, catching Richie’s gaze with hard, dark eyes. “I know this is who I am. I belong with you guys.”

Richie nods.

“But you don’t get why I have to go…”

Richie shakes his head.

“...It’s like… you’re allowed your ounce of privacy, right? Well, I need that, too.”

The sound Richie makes is exasperated. “Maybe we should just put all our cards on the table. No more secrets, fuck my privacy. Everyone else already knows any-fucking-way.”

“Richie?” Eddie says, and Richie looks down at him, squeezing his hand tighter. “Thank you. You’re my best friend, and you… You came back for me, and I owe everything to you.”

“No. No, you don’t owe me anything, Eds. I brought you back because I had to, not because I wanted you to feel like you owe me or something,” Richie sighs. He rests his head against the top of Eddie’s, feeling that cavernous space behind his ribs stretching, aching. “I wouldn’t hold you down. I expect nothing from you--just…” 

Eddie is quiet, his heartbeat between Richie’s fingers, so warm and heavy and familiar, and it makes Richie feel disgustingly empty for the first time. “Do I… Can I stay with you? A bit longer?”

Richie closes his eyes, and he feels the tears burning. He holds Eddie’s hand, feeling his heartbeat, given up freely, in those long, familiar fingers. He swallows, and feels the sting of his tears down his cheeks and up the back of his throat.

“Of course, Eddie… For as long as you want. Forever, even,” Richie whispers.

_ So… you can cry without a heart _ , he thinks. Fucking awful.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'm sorry for the late posting of this chapter. One of our dogs passed right before Christmas, so the end of the year was really shit for me personally. Hope you all had good holidays and a happy New Year.  
Second... sorry this chapter is so short, and so much angst.

Bill leaves the next morning, and Ben and Bev that evening. The morning after, Mike leaves too, taking the book and promising Richie he’ll figure something out. He begs Richie to keep Eddie there as long as he can, and offers to stay longer, but Richie just tells him it’s alright.

He feels oddly content, so long as he’s with Eddie. And while Eddie loads up Richie’s overnight bag he leaves it by the door and hardly even looks at it. And even though their friends have all left, when night falls, Eddie brushes his teeth and washes his face in the master bathroom before crawling into bed beside Richie. 

Richie falls asleep with his hand in Eddie’s hair and wakes up kissing his forehead, and he can’t believe he went his whole life without having this. Sure, it’s dishonest and incomplete, considering he’s ass over the moon for Eddie and Eddie doesn’t know, but semantics! Who needs to worry about those details? Certainly not Richie, who is counting his breaths and texts memes to Ben every morning in case he’s about to die and who holds Eddie’s hand like those fingers will slip free any moment.

It’s not a healthy way to live, but Richie is alive. 

He’s alive for another day, then three, until a week and a half has passed and Eddie hasn’t brought up his old life or leaving or the ring that glints on his left hand when Richie climbs out of bed before him. 

Richie wakes up just before six a.m. to a cold feeling behind his ribs. His scar tingles, and he can barely move his hands when he starts blinking into awareness. He hears Eddie’s voice, distant, echoing from downstairs, and realizes he’s in bed alone.

At that, Richie bolts up, struggling to get his glasses on—dropping them four or five times—fighting to get his legs under him as he stumbles out of bed and then down the stairs. The house is dimly lit with the barely-there beginnings of dawn, but the kitchen is glowing brightly when he staggers in and finds Eddie there, setting Richie’s cell on the table before pushing his face into his hands. The overnight bag is closed, Eddie’s wearing his shoes and Richie’s navy blue sweatshirt, and everything feels sharp and bitter and cold.

Richie flexes his fingers and licks his lips. “You’re leaving,” he says softly.

Eddie inhales shakily, the only sign that Richie has really startled him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Which answers my next question,” Richie says.

“Which is?”

“You weren’t going to tell me bye.”

Eddie drags a hand through his hair, then turns in his seat. Richie has never seen him look so tired, not since the time Eddie told him about the leper outside of Neibolt house. His dark eyes are dull, the skin under them softly bruised, and his lips are bitten and torn by his own teeth.

“Richie, I didn’t know what to say.”

“Oh, you know, it could’ve been as simple as, ‘fuck you’,” Richie says, stumbling back until his shoulder hits the archway of the kitchen entryway. “Or, ‘thanks for the impeccable hospitality, but I’ve gotta go home to my fucking hefty keeper.’”

“Richie, stop it,” Eddie says quietly, getting up from his chair. He reaches for Richie’s face, and Richie grabs his hands and forces them down between them, closing his eyes and tilting his head away. 

He’s shaking and there’s a pinching sensation in the hollow spot of his chest, but he’s stronger than Eddie… Maybe because Eddie isn’t really trying.

Eddie inhales through his nose and blows it out through his mouth. He even brushed his teeth already, Richie realizes bitterly. “We both knew I couldn’t just stay here forever. There’s responsibilities and obligations I have to deal with.”

“I said fuck all that. Eds, you’re free, damn it, what part of ‘you died’ makes you think you owe your old life shit?” Richie says, his hands burning where he’s holding Eddie’s wrists. Something tugs at the back of his mind, and he realizes with a dry chuckle that it’s terror. “You were just going to leave.”

Richie would have woken up and Eddie would have been long gone. No.  _ No. _ Richie would have woken up  _ dead _ , without even a courtesy text to his friends that Eddie was abandoning him and the fucking ritual was going to kill him. He would have woken up dead without seeing Eddie one last time.

“Don’t do this,” Richie whispers, his voice barely audible, and Eddie struggles to—hug him? But with Richie holding him back, he can only push his face into Richie’s chest and make a sad, frustrated sound.

“You said you wouldn’t try to stop me,” Eddie says.

“Kind of hard to resist, you know, keeping you here after fucking everything.”

“Fuck, Rich, it’s not like I’m dying twice,” Eddie snaps, pushing back.

Richie releases him. He doesn’t want to argue, or fight, or see that irritable, annoyed look on Eddie’s face, not if it’s the last time he’ll see him. But Richie’s never been one to be un-stubborn, or whatever. “Sure feels like it. Eds, you go back there, you’ll die all over again. Just slowly… where I can’t save you. And I…”

Eddie waits, the deep furrow of his brows softening.

“What can I do? What can I do short of handcuffing you to the radiator to keep you here?”

“Richie, don’t do the hostage bit again.”

“That was Ben, and I was literally dying. I think.”

Eddie glances away quickly. “You weren’t dying, it just hurt…”

“Yeah, because you were leaving! You’re alright with putting me through that again? I’m not trying to guilt trip you into staying, but some guilt would be appreciated here, Eds.”

“You have to trust me, Richie. Please, just  _ trust _ me.”

“How can I trust you? You’re abandoning the guy that risked his life to bring you back from the dead!”

The expression on Eddie’s face twists between rage and hurt. “You want to hold that over me forever?”

There’s a honk outside, and then Richie’s phone chimes, an alert he recognizes as the Lyft app.

His brain switches into overdrive as Eddie takes a small step back from him.  _ He’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving. _

“Richie… Please. You’re my best friend. I would never h-hurt you.” Eddie takes a shuddering breath, and then he steps around Richie, ducks down to grab the bag of his things, and opens the front door.

A searing pain shoots through Richie’s being, focused at the hollow in his chest, and he sees gray at the edges of his sight and wants to lie down on the floor and scream. Instead, he stays on his feet, swallowing the burning ache that’s scorching up his throat like dry summer wind.

He spins around, clipping his shoulder on the wall as he takes uneven steps through the entryway.

“Don’t—Eds, don’t do this!” Richie’s hand flashes out before he can think, and he grabs Eddie by the wrist.

“Richie, I have to,” Eddie retorts, the door hanging open.

Richie can see the car outside, knows that it’s supposed to take Eddie upstate to his… old life. He knows, he agreed, and he promised himself he would let Eddie go, but the empty space behind his ribs feels hollow and raw, jagged cuts drenched in salt, and Richie has to say something before he dies—just one more thing before he goes.

“I’m in love with you,” Richie rushes out, and he can feel Eddie’s heartbeat quicken under his palm.

Eddie looks up at him, his dark eyes wide in panic. “What?”

“I love you, Eddie. I love you so much; I’ve always loved you, ever since we were kids. I’ve always been so afraid to tell you, but everyone else knows, and I need you to know that I love you so much it hurts, and I don’t want you to leave me.” Richie feels, for the first time, afraid of dying. He didn’t bring Eddie back so he could leave him. He brought Eddie back so he could love him and keep him close for the rest of his life.

Eddie blinks up at him, eyes glinting like black glass as they flood with wetness. He looks small, frail, the way he did when they were kids. “Richie… Richie—“

“Eddie, I would do anything for you. I’m only asking for one thing; just one.” Richie pulls Eddie closer, his other hand coming up to cup Eddie’s face. He feels the heat under Eddie’s soft skin, tries to ignore the way Eddie is breathing like he’s on the edge of a panic attack. “I know I kid around, and I know… I just… Fuck, I love you. And not the way I love our friends, or the way you’ve always thought I meant it. Well, yeah, that way, too. You’re my best friend, but I’m in love with you as more than that—I always have been, Eds.”

The little shuddering breath Eddie lets out sounds wet and strained. Down at the curb, the car honks. Eddie startles. Richie holds him still, fingers under his jaw keeping Eddie’s head up, eyes on his.

“Please don’t leave me…” Richie tries again, brushing his thumb across Eddie’s cheek.

“Richie—“

Whatever Eddie intends on saying is halted by Richie’s mouth, because Richie can’t just die without tasting Eddie’s mouth, just once. Eddie makes a soft sound, surprised and high, and Richie holds his face in one hand and his wrist in the other, bowing over Eddie like a storm cloud, a wave. Richie kisses Eddie with everything he has, maybe not the way he always pictured kissing him, or the way the hero kisses the leading lady in a movie. He presses his lips to Eddie’s with the crushing weight of his need, with the heady warmth of his overwhelming desire.

Eddie curves up into him, a hand on Richie’s chest, and his lips part when Richie pulls back, just a breath, before delving his tongue into Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie tastes warm and sweet, his mouth melding to Richie’s perfectly as their tongues slide and Eddie pants against Richie. Richie is pretty sure he isn’t breathing. There’s a roar in his head, lightning under his skin as he feels the dizzying confusion of knowing his heart should be pounding, the echoing pain of feeling nothing. He drowns the pain out by sliding his hand from Eddie’s face to his chest, pushing down over his heart with his palm until he can feel the thunderous kick drum-fast beat of Eddie’s heartbeat. 

Richie pulls back too soon, after too long, not long enough. Eddie blinks up at him, his mouth red and his cheeks flushed, eyes dark and shining. Richie is panting, too, his hands remarkably steady as he holds Eddie close, not daring to look away.

A million words tumble around his skull, their edges sharp and weighty, and Richie licks his lips, glasses sliding down his nose as he whispers, “Please.”

Eddie lifts his hand and covers Richie’s with it, closing his eyes. His touch is warm and heavy, and he’s so beautiful Richie feels physically assaulted by it. Eddie opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Richie’s pleading gaze. He shakes his head. “Richie… I’m so sorry. I have to do this.”

Richie feels the ice sluicing through his veins, and his hands shake as Eddie takes a step back, out of his reach. His hand stretches out blindly, then pulls back, slow, like a dog aching to go but being commanded to stay.

“I… Please. Please, trust me,” Eddie says again, but Richie doesn’t know what the fuck that means. He watches numbly as Eddie runs down the steps and climbs into the little blue car, feels a deep, sharp ache twist up through his entire ribcage as it pulls away from the curb.

Richie feels something like an echo of that pain, the first time Eddie was going to leave, angry and distant. This feels different, but still as painful. It hurts to breathe, and the deprivation of oxygen makes Richie’s vision blur and spin with shadows. 

The car is down the block and around the corner, and further and further out of Richie’s sight before he takes a shuddering inhale and staggers back from the doorway. He lets the front door slip shut and slides to the floor against it, fingers white knuckled on the handle. His chest burns every time he inhales, like something is tearing, and he can hear a keen whistle in his head like he’s about to go deaf.

The pain is close to unbearable, because Richie hasn’t passed out from it but he really wishes he would. The sun glints through the windows as dawn slowly breaks, and Richie stays awkwardly folded up against the door, caught between the feeling of a heart attack and the distinct cavernous feeling of not having a heart at all. Daylight paints different patterns across the floor as the clouds move and the sun shifts, but Richie keeps his eyes closed and his knees to his chest, trying to breathe slowly… waiting.

The sun is somewhere in the western sky when Richie comes to. He’s lying on the floor against the door, and for a moment he thinks he woke up because the door was opening, but it’s just wishful thinking. The house is dim, and the pain has not relented in the slightest.

Somehow, Richie crawls his way to the dining room and uses one of the chairs as support to get his legs under him. He feels thin and frail, like delicately blown tube glass that’s being pulled by frayed strings. Any second now, his strings could snap, and all his glass pieces will just—poof.

Richie clutches his phone in his hand, thumbing the screen awake to see the history of his agonizing day. The alert from Lyft is at the bottom, and then a double text from Bev, and an alert from Bill on Snapchat, and a missed call from Mike. Richie stares at the 8:05 on his screen until the numbers blur.

He woke just before sunrise, and it’s been nearly fourteen hours since Eddie left him.

Richie glances down and then lifts his hand, bringing it up to his chest very slowly. He touches the scar through the material of his sleep shirt, running his fingertips over the raised edge. The pain is excruciating, like he’s gouging himself open all over again, and Richie swears he can feel the warm wet of blood soaking through his shirt.

He stumbles back, catches himself, and then staggers into the living room because there’s no fucking way he can make it up to his bedroom with his legs pinching and aching like he’s ran across fucking Antarctica or something.

He falls onto the couch and drags one of the throw blankets over his body. He’s aching like he’s come down with a fever, and he wants thick socks and a mountain of blankets, but really, he can’t be bothered to crawl up the stairs just for that.

There’s an itchy, scratchy feeling on his face, and Richie scrubs his fingers over his cheek and scrapes off the residue of tear-salt. So he was crying. He wonders how long, or when.

He unlocks his phone and closes his eyes for a long, long moment before typing.

**Group: ** _ Losers _

**Trashmouth (Me):** Eddie left… 

**Trashmouth (Me):** not dead 

Richie drops his phone off the side of the couch and rolls over, pushing his face into the back cushions and pulling the blanket up tight over his shoulder. He curls as tightly as he can, like he could put enough pressure on the pain to make it stop, could crush the discomfort out of him until it’s only a distant soreness.

When that fails, Richie wriggles his hand between the couch cushions and his chest and presses his palm flat over the twinging burn of the scar. He presses down, listening to the roar in his head grown like a hurricane, the pain making his toes curl and his nerves shake.

It only takes a few minutes of that before Richie blacks out again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, life has been kicking me in the dick. Richie's gonna get some comfort for his hurt for now.

When Richie wakes up, it feels like it’s a hundred years later. In reality, it’s about thirty hours, and it’s because Ben is coaxing him into awareness.

“Rich, come on,” he says gently, a big hand pushing the hair back from Richie’s face, another on his stomach.

Something… licks? Something licks across Richie’s jaw, up over his cheek, and the room feels hurricane loud and fucking what?

Richie blinks into awareness, aching and sore like he’s had an elephant stampede coming one way over his body before turning around and coming back the same direction. His chest feels like there’s a sizzling pan pressed against it, and his ribs feel cracked open.

He smacks a hand up over his chest and is relieved to find he’s not a contorted Jigsaw mess. His eyes find Ben’s face, pale eyes bright and flooded with concern, leaning over Richie on the couch. “Wow… Oh, this is weird. Interesting choice of fantasy there, Tozier,” Richie says, and then a tongue is dragging over his fingers, slipping  _ between _ them.

“Richie, I’m here. This is real; it’s Ben,” Ben says, giving Richie’s cheek a gentle swat.

It sobers him some, and Richie pushes his glasses straight and looks over Ben one more time. He’s wearing a white button down, unbuttoned, over a maroon shirt with jeans, and Richie looks up at him and gives him a chef kiss.

“Haystack, you’re a sight.”

“Stop,” Ben says sternly, and there’s a low, keening whine.

Richie blinks yet again. “What the sam hell,” he says, and sits up on one elbow, and there he is. “Henny!”

Ben’s dog Hennessey whines pitifully, tail wagging and ears back at he looks from Ben to Richie, licking his own mouth anxiously.

“No kissing. Stop being weird,” Ben says, but allows the dog to step forward and push his head into Richie’s waiting hand. 

“Hennessey, Hennessey,” Richie says in a singsong voice.

“You’re perfect for each other.”

“Let me keep him then.”

“We’ll get you your own. Later.”

Richie scratches behind the big shepherd’s ears, then looks around his living room. “You’re in my house?”

“The door was unlocked, you asshole. You haven’t answered your phone in a day.” Ben pulls Richie into a sitting position and looks him over, then carefully pinches at the collar of Richie’s shirt. “Can I?”

“By all means,” Richie grumbles.

Ben pulls the shirt down, and winces. “Doesn’t look too good… but you’re not dead, so I’ll take that as a win,” he says, then gently touches at the edges of the scar. The middle is deep red, like blood will start pouring from it any moment, and there’s mottled bruising in burgundy and orchid around it. His touch makes Richie exhale shakily, not in pain, but almost discomfort. The touch is warm on his already overheated and raw skin, and Richie shrugs away and fixes his shirt.

“I see my text went through,” Richie says, then glances at his phone, still on the floor.

Ben reaches down and gets it for him, handing it to Richie so he can see the dozens of missed calls, texts, and even an attempted FaceTime from Bill. Nothing from Eddie to speak of.

“How are you not dead? I thought… We all thought,” Ben says.

Richie shrugs. “I dunno, but I sure wish I was…” He removes his hands from Hennessey’s fur and covers his face. “I wish I was. Ben, it hurts so much.” He’s not ashamed at the way his voice trips over a sob at the end, and Ben’s hands on his shoulders are heavy and  _ good _ after.

“It’s gonna be alright, Rich. You’re soaked in sweat, though. You’re gonna get yourself sick. Come on,” Ben says, and he hooks an arm under Richie’s and around his back. He pulls Richie up from the couch, and Richie would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being almost carried to the bathroom.

Ben starts up the water and sets a couple towels on the toilet lid, then pulls his phone from his pocket. Hennessey lies down by the sink, his big whiskey eyes on Richie’s face. “I’m going to tell everyone you’re alright and make you some soup, okay?”

“Ben… why are you here again?” Richie asks, fussing with his shirt hem.

“Because we love you, Rich. Someone had to come check on you when you wouldn’t call us back.”

“Very interesting.”

“I was the closest. Bill went back to LA, Mike’s in Florida, and Bev couldn’t get out of some meeting with her lawyer. Her ex is a real shitshow.” He taps away at his phone, then reaches a hand out and combs Richie’s hair back again. “Please don’t slip and fall in the shower, okay?”

“You really came back here… just to check on me?”

“Losers stick together,” Ben says softly, and his smile makes Richie’s chest feel like little flowers are blooming there.

“You’re the epitome of sunshine, Haystack,” Richie says, then ducks his head and slips off his glasses, which are starting to steam up.

“You. Shower. Now.” With that, Ben leaves the bathroom, and Richie sheds his sticky, admittedly gross clothes and gets in. 

The spray does most of the work, water so warm it rinses all the sweat from Richie’s skin, but he still washes with soap and shampoo, then tilts his head against the wall and lets the water soak him while his conditioner sets.

When he emerges and wraps himself in the towels, Hennessey hasn’t moved, though his tail wags at the sight of Richie returning to his immediate space. The smell of carrots, chicken, and salt rises up the stairs, and Richie hobbles to the kitchen with a towel around his waist and another draped over his head and shoulders. The floor is uncomfortably cold as Richie steps into the kitchen, and Hennessey trots over to Ben and circles him before going back to Richie.

“How domestic,” Richie mumbles teasingly.

“It’s Bev’s favorite soup. Sorry it’s not too fancy,” Ben replies, stirring the little pot.

“That’s wild rice. You just… brought soup stuff? Even though you thought I might be dead? You even brought the  _ dog _ .”

“I knew you weren’t. You text us ‘not dead’, which, by the way, was not very reassuring at all.” Ben says, smiling down at the pot. “But when you didn’t reply to anything else, we all got a little concerned. Not dead doesn’t mean you’re alright.”

“I’m not,” Richie says, sliding into a chair at the table. “It feels raw inside. Like…”

Ben waits, then gently says, “Go ahead.”

Richie drops his cheek down on the table, glasses askew as he looks at Ben’s back. “Like when I cut my heart out, it burned, but it was smooth… Clean and fast, almost. And when I had Eddie, the pain was immediately gone. I mean, I was covered in blood and I felt empty and fucking weird, but I had him, and it was alright. It didn’t hurt again until he tried to leave… This pain feels like I took a rusty piece of metal and scraped the inside of my chest raw with it.”

“Richie, Mike read through that chapter a dozen times. Two dozen. The ritual was very clear, and the warnings didn’t have any wiggle room. You’re not dead, and that’s great, but it really leaves us with more questions than answers, and no knowing how to stop the pain,” Ben says miserably, turning around to frown at Richie like this is all his fault. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, you’re helping so much, right now. I don’t even feel like dying with you here, Haystack,” Richie says, smiling with his cheek squished against the table.

Ben smiles back, but it’s still sad, and helpless.

It’s hard not to feel helpless, looking at Richie, knowing he feels the pain he’s feeling. Richie, on the other hand, feels a thousand times better just having one of his best friends here. Knowing his friends are all worried about him, that they’ll do anything to help… It eases the ache, even if it doesn’t make it go away.

The soup is done not long after, and Richie is dressed and warm on the couch, leaning into Ben’s side with Hennessey on his legs while they FaceTime with Bill. The sun coming through palm trees is a beautiful sight, and Richie realizes he kind of misses California, but not as much as he misses Bill. 

Big Bill, their fearless leader, always knowing what to do. Richie looks at that handsome face, watches how those blue eyes crinkle at the corners when Bill smiles, and he aches all over. He can see the exhaustion there, that Bill doesn't know what to do to help him, to protect him, and Richie feels loved just because his friends... well, just because they want to try. That they don't know how is killing them, and Richie wishes he could just slap a mask on over the pain and even just pretend to feel fine, but it hurts too fucking much. And besides, his friends aren't going to judge him for being a complete wuss. 

They call Mike next, and he talks for nearly thirty minutes about how he’s trying to figure out how Richie is still alive and what he can do to help. This endless determination is what always made Richie so in awe of his friends. He wished he could find some for himself.

The warmth of the living room and the comfort of his friends makes Richie feel heavy and dense, like a pillow soaked in ooey, gooey love and tenderness. He’s mostly asleep with his head on Ben’s lap, and he listens to Ben talking softly to Bev.

“Mild improvement. The soup helped, I think… he just needed attention. Still in pain.” Ben says quietly, and Richie stirs a little.

“Talkin’ shit about me?” He says, half awake.

“Go back to napping. No, not you, love.” There’s quiet, and then Ben hesitates, and Richie can feel the tension building inside of him, surely due to the reluctance in saying his next words. “Bill said Eddie called him,” he says, knuckles resting against the back of Richie’s neck. “He said… he wanted to let him know everything was alright. No, no fucking clue.”

At the mention of Eddie’s name, Richie’s chest gives a tight pinch, and he curls into himself, pushing his head against Ben’s stomach.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Ben says softly, then into the phone, “Huh? Yeah. Richie? Can Bev talk to you?”

“I’m indisposed currently,” Richie replies through his teeth.

_ “Rich? Honey, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just need to know what Eddie said when he left you. Did he… say anything?” _ Beverly says over the speaker, and Richie feels his eyes sting, his chest burning.

“He said he was sorry… and that I had to trust him.” Richie swallows around something jagged and hot in his throat, and the action makes the tears in his eyes spill over. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

_ “It’s alright, honey. It’s going to be okay, understand?” _

“How?” Richie burrows into Ben’s stomach then, pulling hard at his shirt, and Ben curls over him, his arm an iron band over Richie’s back. Ben’s abs are surprisingly comfy as Richie pushes his face against them.

“I’m gonna stay till morning, try to get him stable. I can take care of him, Bevvie,” Ben says, and Richie can no longer hear Bev’s reply, so he assumes the speaker has been taken off. “Mike said there’s nothing. He’s checked everything, and… Richie’s still here, so. Maybe we should just give up and focus on taking care of him. Count blessings and such.”

Softly, Richie can hear Beverly ask, ‘but will he hurt like this for the rest of his life?’

He squeaks out a whine into Ben’s stomach, and the arm around his back moves, shifts so that Ben’s hand is curved against the nape of his neck, fingers in his hair.

“…I don’t know, Bev.”

-

Richie enjoys his night with Ben as much as he can. It’s nice to have another person in his house. They sleep in the second guest bedroom, long ways, and Ben doesn’t ask why. Richie really doesn’t like this bed, but he doesn’t want to sleep alone if he doesn’t have to, and he doesn’t want Ben in his bed. It could ruin the smell, and… Richie doesn’t want that.

But the bed feels comfortable enough in his fucked up emotional state, and Richie doesn’t even have to ask for Ben to touch him, which is a blessing that saves him some awkwardness. Hennessey joins them, curling up in the space between them while Ben shows Richie some short, funny videos on YouTube. He falls asleep on his front with Ben’s hand on his forearm, and wakes up with fingers lightly curled around his wrist. It feels like grounding, comfort, and Richie wakes feeling a little less raw.

They go to a small café for breakfast and eat outside so Hennessey can sit with them, and Richie is taken back home full of fudge sauce and waffles and a gnawing ache that feels close to crippling.

But he doesn’t crumble, and he doesn’t  _ die _ , so… Pros and cons?

They FaceTime Bill to let him know Ben has to leave soon, and there’s a promise to visit as soon as possible, and then an offer for Richie to come stay with Bill and Audra, or Ben and Bev, or Mike—though he’s not there to confirm nor deny the do-ableness of such an offer.

Richie feels like a few band aids are holding his chest together, but he loves those band aids more than anything. His friends really fucking love him, and it’s a comfort so heavy and real it’s almost overwhelming.

When Ben is ready to leave, he pulls Richie into his arms in a hug so crushing Richie feels bruised after, in the best and warmest way. He waves at Hennessey’s head sticking out the window, then goes into the kitchen and sits with his bare feet on the cold tiles until he feels hungry. However long that takes, Richie isn’t sure, but he pours out some of the leftover soup and eats it in the living room

He has many hours alone to contemplate what he’s supposed to do, now that he hasn’t died, but all he can really think about is Eddie.

He should worry about work, and makes a mental note to call his agent, but Eddie trumps that shortly thereafter.

He showers even though he’s not really dirty, and throws a load in the laundry while thinking about Eddie.

Richie’s not upset Eddie called Bill and not him. He’s not, honest. Bill’s their leader, the head of the family. If Eddie was gonna get in touch with anybody, it would be Bill. He’s just… disappointed. Hurt, maybe, that Eddie didn’t call or even text, or  _ email! _

Richie thinks about kissing Eddie in the doorway, how it had felt sudden, rushed, dizzying. Lightning under the skin, no heartbeat in his ribs, Eddie… Eddie leaving anyways.

“Maybe don’t kiss people who don’t want to kiss you,” Richie sighs as he slumps into his bed, burrowing into the blankets and dragging Eddie’s pillow over to his chest. The smell is the only thing that remains, the distinct scent of Eddie’s sweat and his hair under the gentle notes of Richie’s own body wash and shampoo. The  _ Eddie _ smell.

Richie closes his eyes, because even  _ that _ will be gone, eventually. “Consent 101 or whatever, Tozier.”

-

Richie’s morning is full of text messages and Snapchat alerts, and Richie brushes his teeth and washes his face while he answers them. He looks longingly at his bed before he manages to pull a clean sweater on over his shirt and heads downstairs for breakfast.

Every step down the stairs has him shaking, and he’s pretty sure his hands are numb, but he gets into the fridge and fishes out the last of the leftover soup for breakfast before calling Mike.

_ “My turn to come over?” _ Mike answers on the fourth ring.

“No, I’m alright for now… I think.”

_ “Ben said you were… stable. I don’t know what he meant by that.” _

“I’m in terrible pain and the fact that my heart isn’t in my chest is glaringly obvious… but I’m on my feet, warming up some soup.”

_ “Richie, we’re all really worried about you. I tried getting ahold of… well, I asked Bill if he thought it was a good idea,” _ Mike says, and Richie knows what he means exactly.

“He hasn’t tried… to call me.” He swallows thickly, feeling the swelling heat and pain edging along his chest. He can feel his hands again, but it’s not exactly a good thing now.

_ “Rich, I just wish I knew how to help…” _

“Hey, I’m doing alright so far. It’s just… It’s so weird, Mikey,” Richie sighs.

_ “That you’re not dead? Why is that weird? Richie, this is the best thing I’ve heard all week,” _ Mike says fiercely.

Richie sighs longer, louder. “No, just… Well, yeah. The book made it seem like death was imminent! I was prepared to lie down and drift into the light, or whatever.”

_ “You can’t give up. Listen to me, Richie—you do not give up. No matter how much it hurts or how tired you get, we’re here for you. And you can’t just give that up. We’ll get you through this. Losers stick together,” _ Mike says, voice as strong and steady as he can manage, and Richie hears that struggle in his voice.

It makes his skin feel raw, and he closes his eyes and leans over the sink, thinking about Eddie by the coffee pot, wearing Richie’s clothes. Thinking about Eddie waking him gently, the bed still smelling like him, still warm.

Thinking about Eddie leaving, without even saying goodbye.

Richie lifts his head and looks out one of the gray-lit windows, exhaling. “I’m trying, Mikey… Promise I’ll try.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rises from the ashes* NEW CHAPTER!!  
Please... take these crums, my little crumbsies.  
xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

With his life not immediately ended with Eddie’s desertion, Richie has to keep on living. He calls his agent and apologizes for everything. When he skypes with Trevor later, he’s surprised to see how much his freak out and sudden disappearance has blown up. Trevor isn’t even mad about it! The publicity is crazy, and he’s been offered another year-long tour with a stop at the Rockefeller Center for a Netflix special or some shit. Richie’s bank account is given a healthy kick in the nuts for his trouble, and Richie is boosted to the top of  _ hot topics _ when the announcement is made for his new tour, even without dates.

He goes for walks every now and then, usually through the park to pet dogs and to eat while aimlessly avoiding being home. The reality of life going on, without Eddie, without a heart? It’s fucking sandpaper on Richie’s tender, raw nerves. It might have been easier to just keel over dead when Eddie left him, but instead Richie has to live with the fact that this time? Eddie chose to leave. This time, Eddie wasn’t taken from him. Eddie left. Eddie’s literally an hour drive away, and Richie will be across the country soon, so maybe then the pain will numb. Maybe. Hopefully.

The emptiness is exhausting, and sometimes, when Richie wakes up from nightmares, he scratches his scar to feel something, since there’s no heartbeat beneath his skin. 

Altogether, Richie is feeling alright a week after the whole abandonment thing, and he’s not bitter at all. Nope. No bitterness at all.

He longs for Eddie like there’s no fucking tomorrow, and sometimes it sure feels that way. But what’s a guy to do? You spend thirty years pining, confess your feelings, get shot down, and then you don’t die? Miserable.

It’s just about sunset when Richie gets home from the movies. He likes when the theatres play the old black and white stuff, and it’s nice to just sit alone watching a movie not at home. It seems less lonely, that way.

Richie slides out of his car and jingles his keys awkwardly, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk when he realizes the shadowy lump sitting in the doorway of his brownstone. The body is clearly human, though small for the species, with the knees bent up and the shoulders hunched, head resting against the small jut of windowpane on one side of the entryway.

“Eds?” Richie calls, and Eddie startles.

He sits upright, his hands fluttering awkwardly over his knees. “Rich, you’re home.”

“Uh, yeah… Holy shit, you’re… you’re here,” Richie says, and he hurries up the steps and takes Eddie’s hands when he holds them up, dropping his keys. The contact immediately soothes the prickling tension that has been biting at Richie’s nerves for a week, and he squeezes Eddie’s hands and feels warmth spreading in his chest. His brain takes inventory through his hands and eyes, registering the soft flush from sleep on Eddie’s face, the ease of grace about him, the warmth of his hands where there used to be a quick flash of something cold. Richie runs his thumbs over Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie isn’t wearing a ring. He hoists Eddie to his feet, and Eddie staggers into Richie’s chest.

“Fuck, my leg’s asleep.”

“How long have you been fucking sitting here?”

Eddie glances down at his wrist. “Uhm, four hours?”

“You couldn’t fucking  _ call _ me?”

“I don’t have a phone right now, and no, I wanted you to be surprised to see me.”

Richie laughs dryly. “Mission fucking accomplished.” He glances down at the suitcases stacked up beside the doorframe, the ones Eddie had been resting against, and blinks. “The fuck are those?”

Richie’s overnight bag is atop the awkwardly stacked black suitcases that look more or less like a set, aside from the cheesy Star Wars duffel. Eddie looks at them, then back up at Richie. His face is flushed warm and pink, and he brushes his thumb across Richie’s knuckles in a way that makes Richie’s stomach twist up. “Can… Can I come in? And we can talk?”

“Of course. Yeah, you can come in, fuck, please,” Richie says, and he drops one of Eddie’s hands to reach for his keys. “Uh… Your stuff too?”

“No shit?”

Richie laughs, ducking his head. “Wow, okay, yeah.” He unlocks the door and helps Eddie get his six fucking suitcases of varying sizes into the hallway, then Richie flicks on a couple lights and goes into the kitchen. He digs into the fridge and hands Eddie a bottle of water, and debates pouring himself several shots of something dark and strong when he sees Eddie shuffling in the doorway.

He’s got a paper clipped packet of papers against his chest.

“…Eddie.”

Eddie looks up at him, and then quickly sits down in one of the little chairs. “Before… I mean, since this…” Eddie exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, and Richie’s never seen him so disheveled and beautiful. “I don’t expect anything from you, Richie.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I just mean… I have some things to say, and some risks to take. But I’ve calculated them and decided it’s worth it. You’re worth this,” Eddie says, and that choice of words makes Richie’s fingers tingle. “And before we go anywhere else, I’m sorry. For leaving you, and for not really… explaining. I’m so terribly sorry, and…”

Sighing heavily, Eddie sets the packet of paperwork down on the kitchen table, and Richie glances down at it.

The top sheet has a fancy looking law firm logo stamped on it, and a bunch of fine print under a line of bold letters. Richie’s never seen paperwork like this in person. Richie only reads one word.

“…Divorce,” he mutters. “You…”

Eddie gestures to the packet. “Got everything I need there. Birth certificate, a rectification of wrongly filed death statement, my passport, my degrees… and, most importantly, the petition for divorce.” He looks up at Richie, his dark eyes wide, the worry lines in his forehead creased. “Because that Eddie died. He died the second Mike called me, and slowly, ever since that moment, I started being the Eddie I used to be. The Eddie I was meant to be.”

“You’re getting divorced.”

“Paperwork will be finalized before November is over. Usually, it takes some time, but I have connections,” Eddie says. “I needed it done quicker.”

“You left her.”

“I had to. I don’t love her.”

“You’re not married.”

Eddie’s brows knit together. “You’re really hung up on that part, aren’t you?”

Richie pulls a chair out and sways over it, but doesn’t sit.

“I’m not the person I’ve been. I know that, for fucking certain. I’m a Loser; Eddie Kaspbrak from Derry who fought a clown in the sewers and died and came back and I’m braver than I think,” Eddie says firmly, his hands curling to fists on the table. “I’m braver than I think…” He whispers it the second time, exhaling slowly.

Richie looks at him, a stinging pain in his eyes and his throat. “Eds…”

Eddie puts his face in his hands. “It’s so fucking exhausting, remembering your entire life backwards. Feeling all the shit you’ve always felt gone sideways and just…  _ feeling _ it after being numb for so long.” He drops one hand, leaving his chin resting in the other, and he gives Richie this smile that reminds Richie of being thirteen and full of longing. “A lot’s happened since we were kids, huh?”

“You could fucking say that again.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I could. I think, though… something really big changed. For you, and for me. Something’s definitely… new.” Eddie lifts one hand and gently touches it over his chest, pressing into the space over his heart. Richie swears he can feel those fingertips on his own skin, over the scar. “…This is yours. Isn’t it?”

Richie gulps, his throat making an audible sound, and his hands flutter awkwardly over the back of the chair, the table, and Eddie hands him the unopened water bottle, which Richie chugs half of. “Hm?”

Eddie laughs, soft and almost shy, and he rubs over his chest with his fingers like he’s reading braille. Richie hopes his fucking heart didn’t have ‘Property of Richie Tozier’ fucking stamped on it. “Just answer the question, Rich.”

“What’s a question?”

“Okay, fine. So it isn’t a question,” Eddie says, getting up from his chair. He steps around the edge of the table, and Richie tries to back off and is quickly forced into the corner of the sink counter.

“Fuck,” he hisses quietly, and Eddie catches his hand.

“When I woke up, my chest felt… weird. Not wrong, or off, but funny. Different. A part of me has probably known from the beginning that this heart? It isn’t mine. It feels strange, but familiar; like I’ve always known it,” Eddie says gently, glancing down.

Richie closes his eyes.

“When I was going to leave you, and you were so hurt, I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe for a moment, my chest was so…” Eddie clears his throat. “Something was hooked in me, pulling me down, like I was tied to you.” He reaches up and touches Richie’s face, and Richie’s eyes blink open, startled. “This is your heart. And me leaving would kill you.”

“’Abandoning’,” Richie corrects. “The, uh… ritual. If you abandon me, I’ll die.” He holds one arm out, gesturing to himself. “But low and behold, a typo, perhaps, for I have not been slain!”

Eddie smiles. “Rich, I didn’t abandon you.”

“Uh, sure seemed like it? When you left in the wee morning hours and totally fucking  _ abandoned _ me,” Richie retorts.

“What were the ritual rules? What did you do, Richie?” Eddie asks.

“I thought I was allowed—“

“You’re not,” Eddie says abruptly, his eyes sharp. “No secrets, no privacy. You told everyone else, now you fucking tell me what you did.”

A modicum of Richie wants to argue against that, to keep his last shred of personal angst to himself, but Eddie clearly is not going to relent. Shrugging, Richie pulls free of Eddie’s touch and paces the hallway back and forth. “Oh, you know, where do we start? Let’s take it from the top. I, uh, stole some books from Mikey, I found some rituals for necromancy and shit, and uh, the whole lost love and sacrifice came up. So, I basically went back to Neibolt and uh…” He laughs shakily, holding a finger up.

Eddie looks at him, patient and yet somehow still annoyed.

Richie pokes at his own chest without touching it, afraid it might still cause him pain to touch. “I cut my heart. Out. Of my chest. Cut it right out, and gave it to you!” Richie throws his arms into the air. “And the rules were like  _ you could die _ but who gives a shit, right? I couldn’t leave you down there, and I couldn’t just give you up. So I said fuck the rules and then you came back and you wanted to leave me—“

“Richie, I never wanted to leave you, and I didn’t,” Eddie says, his hands cupping Richie’s face gently but without room for retreat. “I went to close up my old life and get the things I needed for a new one. I left my wife, Richie. I packed all my shit. Why do you think you’re not dead?”

“I said it was a typo!”

“Richie, I love you,” Eddie says fiercely, shaking Richie’s face in his hands. “I wouldn’t abandon you. I had somewhere I had to be, and then I came right back to you. Leaving and knowing you were going to be in pain while I was gone was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But if you had told me there was a possibility me leaving could  _ kill _ you? Rich, you dumb fucker, I never would have gone. Or at least I would have taken you with me.”

Richie lifts a hand up, lying it over Eddie’s on his cheek. He runs his fingertip over Eddie’s naked ring finger, the skin warm and uncovered and somehow the best thing Richie’s ever touched. “Ya love me, Eds?”

“Is that all you heard?” Eddie huffs with a smile.

“Some other stuff,” Richie says, shaking his head as he lifts his other hand to hold Eddie’s palms to his cheeks with both hands. “So you’re saying… when you left, you totally meant to come back.”

Eddie nods.

“So… You meant to come back.”

“You just said that,” Eddie says gently. 

“Fuck, Eddie, I thought I was going to  _ die! _ You’ve got my fucking heart—do you know how weird it felt? How much it hurt for you to be gone for a week?” Richie snaps, his hands flexing awkwardly in front of him.

Eddie grabs his biceps and squeezes, pressing Richie together tightly, sending a rushing sensation of calm through him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rich. If it’s okay with you, though, I’ll never leave you again. I promise,” Eddie says, still squishing Richie’s sore, tender parts into each other, all of Richie’s muscles feeling warm and achy in a  _ good _ way for the first time in a week.

“You weren’t even gonna say bye!!”

“I didn’t think I could! I was… I was going to come back, the second I could, and the thought of telling you that I had to go,” Eddie pauses, then huffs. “That was selfish and irresponsible. I should have told you, and… I’m sorry, Richie. I really am.”

Richie blinks, feeling dazed, breathless, and he looks down at Eddie and feels his mind shuffling through words like puzzle pieces. “…You don’t wanna leave me?”

Eddie exhales, short and shaky, and takes a step closer, sliding his hands up to Richie’s shoulders and grabbing on tight. Some kind of false muscle memory drags Richie’s hands to Eddie’s hips, and he feels like the room is tilting, sinking, oxygen depleting. 

Gentle fingers trace one side of his neck, and Richie feels a sweep of dizzying heat tumble through him. Eddie’s other hand clings to the fabric of his badly printed parakeet shirt, and his eyes linger on Richie’s chest when he speaks. “Are you really in love with me, Richie Tozier? Or did you just say those things so I wouldn’t leave?” Eddie glances down at his mouth. “Did you kiss me so I wouldn’t leave?”

Richie’s hands flex, gripping Eddie’s hips so tightly bruises could form as he drags him closer, overwhelmed with the realization that he hasn’t smelled Eddie in a week. It’s a weird fucking feeling, but he pulls Eddie close until he can touch his nose to Eddie’s temple, against the soft, dark hair there, and breathe. “I’m in love with you, Eddie. I said it so you wouldn’t leave, because I didn’t want you to. I don’t ever want you to leave me again; I can’t fucking stand not being with you.”

Eddie’s arms circle up around Richie’s neck, and he buries his face into Richie’s chest, and Richie’s arms squeeze around Eddie’s waist. He crushes Eddie to him until it feels like their bones might shift, forced into new spaces so they can fit together and interlock.

“Richie, I’m scared of how much I love you. I’m scared of how I was ready to abandon everything for you in a second,” Eddie murmurs into Richie’s neck. “But it feels so fucking good to love you.”

“I’ve loved you since your red booty shorts and fanny pack, Eds.”

Eddie pulls back, and his mouth is curved into a smile when he presses his lips to Richie’s.

This kiss feels a bit more like the kisses Richie dreamed of. He swears he can feel his heart pounding out of his chest, the rush of blood in his ears and hands. Eddie tangles a hand into his hair and sighs against his lips, and Richie has a hand at the dip of Eddie’s back and one on his shoulder, and he can’t focus on anything but the warmth of Eddie’s mouth and the buzzing under his own skin.

Eddie’s mouth tastes the way Richie remembers, so warm and wet when he licks across Eddie’s tongue just to hear the soft, breathless noise he makes. Richie gets his hand under the hem of Eddie’s shirt, splaying his fingers across the skin at the small of his back as Eddie tilts his head to deepen the kiss. He’s so warm and hard, muscle stretched under soft skin in a way Richie never anticipated. He thinks of the Eddie he fell in love with, the Eddie that twisted his stomach and made Richie’s hands clammy and his tongue heavy. He thinks of wiry limbs and pale skin, perfect hair and lips wrapped around an inhaler.

This Eddie is the same. This Eddie is new and different and the same, because he’s  _ Richie’s _ Eddie.

Richie is startled when Eddie makes a sharp, loud sound, and he realizes he’s twisted them and slammed Eddie up against the wall by the stairs, a hand gripping the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, Eds, I’m sorry, pal,” Richie says breathlessly, panting heavily as Eddie clings to his shoulders with shaking hands.

“Okay, now I’ve got a boner,” Eddie says, face flushed and lips raw, and he’s smiling in a way that’s both bashful and delighted.

Richie blinks. “Oh, Eddiekins, you have a  _ what? _ ”

“A fucking hard-on, dick,” Eddie huffs, then rolls his hips up, just enough so his crotch drags up over Richie’s thigh, and oh,  _ hello _ , that’s Edward’s  _ dick _ .

Richie moans against Eddie’s mouth, kissing him again with a firm press of lips and a filthy slide of tongue. “That for me, Eds?”

“Regrettably,” Eddie says, but Richie can taste his smile, and it makes his stomach twirl into the beginnings of a coil.

“I can take my hands off you right now, if you want. Don’t wanna rush you, Eddie. I wanna love you right,” Richie says, kissing Eddie’s cheek, his jaw, down to his neck where he drags his tongue lightly over the skin.

Eddie makes a hissing sound and hooks his leg over the back of Richie’s thigh, and he rolls up into Richie again and makes the hallway seem to crackle with light. “Richie, take me upstairs.”

“For what?” The look Eddie gives him when he pulls back makes Richie feel he’s about to have his ears boxed. “What?”

“I’m gonna spell this out… very slowly, and very clearly for you, Richie,” Eddie says, and he grips the front of Richie’s undershirt and drags him close. “I’ve dreamt about having that trashmouth in places where mouths shouldn’t be since I was thirteen. I haven’t had hands on me in three years, and I haven’t come since March.”

Richie groans. “Baby, you need it bad.”

“No fucking shit,” Eddie grinds out. “And all I’ve ever wanted is you. So let me make it perfectly clear—I want you to take me to our bed, and I want you to fuck me. I literally  _ need _ you to do this for me, Richie. I can’t stand not being yours for another night.”

Richie kisses him again, gentle, calming, and takes one of Eddie’s hands in his. “Anything you want, Eds, it’s yours.”

“Well, maybe you have a spare couch for a newly homeless homosexual going through a divorce who just confessed to his childhood best friend he’s wanted to get blown by him since forever,” Eddie says, letting Richie pull him up the stairs. “That could be helpful.”

“I’ll one up ya,” Richie says, and he pulls Eddie into his bedroom by the hem of his shirt and kisses him. “I’ve got a king size bed and a willing mouth.”

“You’re meeting all my standards, Rich,” Eddie laughs, letting Richie pull his shirt up over his head before he’s stumbling backwards and onto the bed.

“Oh, I’m a man of refinement, Edward,” Richie drawls. “I’ll speak French between your thighs.”

“How in the fuck—“

“I saw it on a wine glass once.”

“A fucking  _ wine glass _ —“

Eddie is cut off when Richie crawls onto the bed between his thighs and kisses the ever-loving fuck out of him. Eddie threads his hands into Richie’s hair and rocks against him like his hips just can’t stay still.

“Can’t believe you look like this,” Richie says, his fingers catching on the little ditches between Eddie’s abs as he runs a hand down his stomach. “Get fucked, dude.”

“I’m trying to,” Eddie says, stomach quivering under Richie’s hand.

Richie makes a high, whining sound like a tea kettle. “Sex jokes. Time has changed the boy of my dreams into the  _ man _ of my dreams.”

“Did you dream about me, Rich? Do you remember?”

“I did. All the fucking time, Eds. I remember.”

“Bev was right. You grew into your looks.”

“Still don’t know what the fuck that means, but if you’re into garbage cans, you’ve hit the jackpot.”

Eddie’s fingers touch along Richie’s jaw, carefully push his over shirt off his shoulders before running back up his arms. Eddie shudders. “You’re not a fucking garbage can.  _ Fuck _ , you feel good,” Eddie sighs. “You’re gorgeous, Rich.”

“The lady mustn’t falsely proclaim thy attraction,” Richie grumbles, “for she is lovelier than thy bedmate.”

“Richie, I will pinch your ballsack if you don’t fucking—“

“Don’t like that. I’m done,” Richie laughs, rocking his hips up so Eddie can unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper. “I’m hot stuff, I know. Make all the ladies crazy. My milkshake, it brings the boys to the yard. People would kill to have these lean, long legs on their shoulders.”

“I’d kill them first,” Eddie says, watching Richie wrestle his jeans off. He’s huffing, dick tenting his Pikachu boxers and his undershirt wrinkled to hell. “Yeah. That’s all mine.”

“Eddie, you’ve become the possessive type,” Richie sighs dreamily, hands returning to Eddie’s hard stomach like he can’t help himself.

Eddie exhales sharply, letting Richie run his hands down to undo his jeans and drag them down and off. He’s left in his black briefs, hands clutching at the blankets as Richie runs his hands up his calves. “It’s so weird. I can’t say I’ve thought about this for as long as I can remember… because we only just remembered a little while ago. Forgetting, remembering… Wanting you. Richie, loving you feels so much older than my memory can handle.”

“I get it. I get it, baby,” Richie says, kissing Eddie’s hip. Eddie bucks up into the touch and the petname.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“You like that, baby?” Richie teases, kissing Eddie’s abdomen, then his rib. “You gonna be good for daddy?”

Eddie knees him in the side, his laughter close to cackling as he exclaims, “Beep beep!”

“Yeah, that was creepy. I’m too fucking fucked to be a father,” Richie says, laughing into Eddie’s neck when the smaller man lets him close again.

“I don’t think that’s the point of that kink,” Eddie says.

“Edward Kaspbrak, you know what a kink is?”

Eddie rolls them over, pressing Richie down into the bed as he kisses him, one hand pinning Richie’s wrist down, and  _ oh _ . Isn’t that fucking nice. “I’m fucking forty, asshole. I know what kinks are.”

“Care to share?” Richie is having trouble breathing now, because Eddie is sliding his shirt up and squeezing his wrist and biting his fucking mouth. “Any personal kinks from the filthy mind of Eddie K. wanna come out and play?”

“I don’t know, Rich, but we’re gonna find out together. Trial and error. Practice makes perfect. As long as it’s with you, it’ll probably get my dick wet,” Eddie pants wetly against Richie’s jaw.

“Sweet fuck,” Richie groans, and he gets his free hand on one of Eddie’s perfect ass cheeks and squeezes.

Eddie moans against his neck, and Richie catalogs it to the sound folder of his spank bank. “Want your hands, your mouth. Want you to bruise me, Rich. Want you to suck me slow, make me beg till I come for you. I want… I wanna know what your dick feels like at the back of my throat.”

“ _ Eddie _ ,” Richie gasps. “Now is  _ not _ the time,” he growls, and pulls Eddie into a hard, wet kiss that is, at first, just the clack of teeth.

“I thought you wanted to know,” Eddie huffs, but allows the kiss to silence him effectively when Richie whines.

“Well yeah, fuck, but I’m on the verge of premature sploogeing here.”

It’s so weird, kissing someone who’s talking into your mouth, but Eddie really fucking likes that it’s Richie.

He moans into Richie’s mouth, and Richie gets both hands on his ass, fingers digging into the crease between the cheeks and pressing tight against the thin fabric. It’s so fucking hot, just a flimsy bit of cotton between his fingers and Eddie’s hole, and Richie sinks in deeper.

“I can’t breathe,” Eddie gasps, rolling his hips, desperate for more.

“I know CPR.”

“Can I have you naked?” Eddie asks, touching his fingers along Richie’s stomach, the loose material of his shirt hanging down, exposing his abdomen.

Richie shudders. “Can I keep my shirt on? I’m a proper lady, you know.”

Smiling, Eddie drags the material up a bit, knuckles grazing Richie’s skin. “Please?”

The sharp puff of air Richie exhales startles him. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Eddie’s smile grows.

Richie sits back a bit, hooking his hands in his shirt before pulling it up and over his head. He throws it somewhere at the floor, his glasses askew as he watches Eddie’s eyes rake over him, taut stomach and broad chest dusted in hair, before stopping at the scar.

Something shifts in his dark gaze, his lips parting so softly as he sets a hand on Richie’s side, fingertips at his ribs. “Rich.”

Richie lifts his arms and holds them out. “Am I not hotter than the surface of the sun?”

“Does it hurt?” Eddie asks instead, and Richie sighs, slouching down over the single most gorgeous man he’s ever seen.

“No… Well, it hurts when I touch it. And when you were away, and… It feels weird. Like the closer I am to you, the better I feel.” Richie’s fingers hesitate at the edge of the mark, and Eddie’s hand rises, then hovers. Licking his lips, Richie gives a nod.

Eddie’s fingers move slowly, giving Richie the chance to back out, but he doesn’t, and Eddie’s touch along the scar feels like late summer rain and spring sunshine and shooting stars. There’s no pain, nothing even close to it, and Richie forgets how to breathe for a moment with the way his whole body lights up. When the other Losers had touched the mark, Richie had felt almost a numb tingle. Not discomfort, but nothing close to the opposite. With Eddie’s touch, Richie is reminded of how the knife felt breaking his skin, because this feels like the other end of the spectrum. It’s cold, but not icy, yet amplified to a heat that is close to pleasure. Eddie’s touch is soothing and bright.

Richie makes a keening noise in his throat, and Eddie takes it as a sound of intense feeling rather than pain or discomfort. He also gasps softly, the sound catching in his throat as his eyes flutter shut and his fingers follow the mark.

“Feels good… when you do that,” Richie exhales, his voice barely audible.

“I feel it,” Eddie whispers, his lips curling at the corners, and Richie looks down at him and cups his cheek. Eddie returns the warmth of his gaze, pressing his palm over the few inches that are a raised, pale line through Richie’s tan skin and dark chest hair. “I feel  _ you _ , Richie.”

“There’s nothing there. I’m hollow like a fucken little Russian nesting doll? You know those things? But my baby, tiny doll is gone,” Richie says, folding his hand over Eddie’s to keep it there, to keep this drugging, sensational feeling going.

“No, you… Fuck,” Eddie breaks off, laughing. “Fucking dipshit.”

“My love.”

“You’re not a fucking matryoshka doll.”

“ _ That’s _ what they’re called!”

Eddie sits up on his elbow, touching his lips to Richie’s. “It doesn’t hurt, right? You’re sure?”

“Feels weird sometimes. When my heart should be pounding but there’s nothing there. Don’t understand how it works, but I got a boner, so clearly the blood still flows to the important places,” Richie says, and Eddie kisses him harder.

“Rich, I feel it. I can  _ feel _ you, it’s… What do you mean?” Eddie says, almost pleadingly, and Richie slides a palm over Eddie’s chest and pushes down over his heart.

“You feel it in  _ here _ . Eddie, I literally dug a knife into my chest and watched my heart crawl out of my ribs like some fucking horror show,” Richie says, pushing his forehead against Eddie’s. “I’ve got nothing in there. Nothing but you.”

“I’ll just stay close then,” Eddie says, curving his hand under Richie’s jaw, his other palm still flat to the scar. “You feel your heartbeat in my chest?”

“Yours. It’s always been yours.”

“I’ll never leave you again, Richie. I promise,” Eddie says, pulling Richie down and kissing along his neck. 

“Do you feel that? When I touch you, and it’s like my heart fucking smiles?” Eddie’s lips are curved into a smile as he speaks, and Richie shudders.

He knows the feeling. He knows exactly what Eddie is feeling because once, in his chest, that was  _ his  _ heart reacting just that way.

“It’s always felt like that for me, Eds.”

Eddie pushes him over, lying along Richie’s side as they keep kissing, hands exploring the bare flesh available. Everything is tingling and flooded with a strange, decadent warmth. Richie is positive they are both going to buzz out of their skin or melt into some new creature that is only him and Eddie and pleasure.

With a whine and a sharp buck of his hips, Eddie breaks the kiss, sitting up over Richie, panting.

He looks down at Richie, his eyes practically burning black, and Richie feels something in his chest like the skip of a heartbeat.

_ Fucking weird. _

Eddie inhales and throws his leg over Richie’s thighs, straddling Richie’s hips, and the room flashes dark and blue. Everything in the room slows down, darkens, and pleasure is washed out by a quick flood of panic and fear. Blood is warm on Richie’s face, his stomach, and he sees Eddie’s face twist in pain and confusion as a huge claw tears right through his chest.

Richie grabs Eddie’s hips and shoves him off, turning over and dry heaving at the edge of the bed, hyperventilating.

“Richie? Rich, it’s okay,” Eddie says gently, hands fluttering over Richie’s shoulders. “Can I touch you, honey?”

Richie nods, his boner effectively killed as he tries to steady his hands, and Eddie’s own rest on his shoulders.

“Talk to me, Richie.”

“I saw… when you were…” He inhales, then his exhale sounds like a sob. “I don’t think I can handle you being over me like that. Not yet, it…”

“It’s alright, Richie.” Eddie kisses the nape of his neck, nosing into his curls. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought.”

“No, usually, having you in my lap would be sexy.”

Eddie laughs softly.

“I just, last time you were over me like that, you… you got hurt,” Richie finishes.

Eddie manages to get Richie to turn around, and he tangles their fingers together. It’s like when they were kids, Eddie’s face all scrunched up in a baby scowl, betraying his calculating brain. 

He scoots back, making Richie follow him, and when Eddie lies back, Richie goes. Eddie exhales, soft and warm, pulling his arms over his head, Richie’s going right along with him. He spreads his knees wide, and Richie settles into the cradle between them before Eddie grips him close with his thighs. Richie’s elbows settle on either side of Eddie’s face, and their lips are just inches apart, chests pressed warmly together.

Richie’s lying over Eddie, curved over him like two carefully laid puzzle pieces, and Eddie’s big dark eyes are shining up at him.

“This better?” Eddie says gently.

Richie exhales shakily, the moment sprawling out for hours on end. He takes in every detail of Eddie’s face, the hollow of his throat, the flush on his cheeks. He threads his fingers through Eddie’s hair, dark tendrils on the pillowcase, the deep darkness of his eyes too much for Richie to bear.

Eddie raises his brows, his hands resting at Richie’s ribs and the small of his back. “Richie…”

“The boner is definitely back,” Richie says, and he kisses Eddie’s smiling mouth. His tongue delves in without hesitation, hips rocking, and the motion makes Eddie give a little whimper. “I love you. I really do, Eds.”

“Richie, jesus,” Eddie sighs.

“Sorry I almost killed the mood.”

“Don’t. You don’t apologize for being uncomfortable. It’s alright now, I promise,” Eddie says, squirming a little under Richie’s weight.

“God, I need… I need a lot of things right now. Gotta get your underwear off, I gotta get inside you.” Richie groans. “That’s top of the list, if that’s alright with you, my love.”

“What-the-fuck-ever, Rich,” Eddie says, and he pulls Richie down to touch their lips together again. “Just fuck me.”

Richie ignores the way his balls rejoice at Eddie’s voice saying those words, instead meeting those big, dark eyes and batting his lashes. “Can I make love to you, Kaspbrak?”

“If it’s us, there’s nothing but love going on, Tozier.”

Richie turns and attaches his lips to Eddie’s neck, sucking so hard that the body beneath him bows up with a warm, sweet sound. “That’s poetry, Eddie.”

“Can it, you—“Eddie breaks off on another high, decadent moan as Richie bites a spot just a bit lower, running his tongue over the hot skin before sucking some more. “Oh…  _ ohh, _ are you— _ fuck _ , you… are you giving me a hickey? What are you, thirteen?”

“You seem to be liking it,” Richie purrs, grinding their hips together slowly, scraping his teeth over the mark before giving another hard, long suck.

Eddie keens, hands flying up to scratch for purchase at Richie’s bare shoulders, one knee hooking over Richie’s hips.

“And yeah, maybe I am. Being with you takes me back to that place, where I wanted my hands down your stupid little red shorts and my mouth on your neck,” Richie practically growls.

“Richie,” Eddie whimpers, a hand in Richie’s hair, holding him close as he feels the tiny vessels just beneath his skin break and burst under Richie’s tongue and lips. “You and your stupid mouth.”

“Beep beep?”

“No, fuck. Always… I’ve wanted your mouth forever. In every way,” Eddie begs, and Richie leans onto his elbow to survey his handiwork. A red and soft lilac bruise has risen to the surface of Eddie’s pallid, perfect throat, and his stomach does a fucking loop-de-loop at the sight.

“You’re got me every way.”

Eddie scrambles up, kissing Richie while simultaneously trying to… escape from beneath him? He turns over and wriggles up to the side of the bed, and Richie watches his little ass move as he yanks open the drawer of the bedside nightstand.

“Yeah, you would have this, wouldn’t you,” Eddie mutters, and when he sits up again, hand-pump lube bottle in hand, Richie waggles his brows.

“Jealous, my Eddie?”

“Of your right hand?”

“Touche.” Richie hooks his fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s briefs, and he scoots closer, closer, until his nose is nearly touching Eddie’s. “Never… I’ve never been with anyone the way I want to be with you.”

Eddie flushes, exhaling a shuddering breath. “Richie—“

“I kissed two guys in college… I think? Maybe one. But you’re… you’re my endgame, Eds.”

“Richie, Myra and I… it was only…”

Richie pulls Eddie’s briefs down to his thighs, lower, lower, until they’re around his ankles and Richie can kiss Eddie’s hard, leaking, perfect fucking cock. “Don’t talk about your ex in our bed.”

“I swear—I won’t,  _ ever _ . But Rich, it was only twice—and I didn’t even like it, it was… It wasn’t… I want you so much I can’t stand it. I always have. So… Just two completely unsexy times, with a condom,” Eddie whimpers, watching Richie gently touch his lips to the underside of his cock, kissing down until his nose is nuzzled into the neatly trimmed hair at the base. 

Richie looks up at him, eyes bright behind the frames of his glasses. “You noticed I didn’t have any of those in there, right?”

Eddie closes his eyes, swallows, then pushes the lube bottle into Richie’s face. Richie rears up, flabbergasted, but catches the bottle, glasses askew. “If I wanted you to fuck me with a condom, I would have brought them.”

The little wheels that make Richie’s brain work slow down, then grind to a complete halt. “…”

Eddie blinks up at him. “Rich? Richie, you okay?”

Richie inhaled sharply, and Eddie watches a couple tears drip down his face. “Eddie… Eddie, you trust me like that?”

Eddie reaches out, and Richie carefully laces their fingers together, sniffling pitifully. Eddie smiles, his whole face glowing red. “Your heart is literally behind my ribs. Richie, every part of me is yours, and I want every part of you.” Eddie pauses. “But then again, you are pretty filthy. We’ll have to set some ground rules.”

“Later. Please, just let me wreck you for now,” Richie says, sliding down the bed, kissing Eddie’s chest and stomach as he goes.

“This is important, you shit,” Eddie protests, moaning as Richie bites his hip bone, hooking his fingers in the soft spots beside Eddie’s hipbones.

“How important?”

“We’re a couple of forty year old virgins. I think… the mechanics of our… situation… need to be… addressed.” Eddie managed, even with Richie very slowly and thoroughly tongue bathing his dick.

Richie pulls back when Eddie’s cock and thighs are shiny with spit, feeling wildly accomplished and also very hungry. He’s never sucked dick before, but Eddie’s is so pretty, thick and straight with a pretty flushed head. He’ll have to practice. He’s got no gag reflex but he also has no technique.

“Eddie, I’m forty. I’ve seen porn before,” Richie says, kneading Eddie’s thighs with his hands.

Eddie shudders. “You’ve watched…  _ that _ kind of porn?”

“Whatever gets the rocks off that day. Though I’ll admit, two guys is my favorite.”

“Richie, you’re impossible.”

“The statistics for finding neurotic risk analysts and gangly comedians though is, to say the least, slim to fucking none.”

“We aren’t ever,  _ ever _ making porn,” Eddie says, trying to fight a smile as Richie spreads his thighs open. “It’s just… I just meant that neither of us have done this before.”

“Do you wanna walk me through the ‘mechanics’? Just in case the porn didn’t teach me enough?” Rihcie teases, reaching for the bottle of lube and squirting some into his hand. He warms it in his palm, his other hand very carefully playing with Eddie’s dick. Spit doesn’t stay wet for long, but Eddie’s leaking enough precome from the tip that Richie could slick him up with it if he wanted. 

Eddie’s hands flex on the sheets, and when he tilts his head away the blush on his face goes down his neck.

“You could make anything sound sexy, Eds,” Richie says, carefully tracing his wet fingers around Eddie’s rim. It’s hot under his fingertips, tight muscle under soft skin, and Richie’s dick twitches. “ _ Prepping your forty year old virgin lover, a how-to guide by Edward Kasprak. _ ”

“I’m gonna kill you, I swear,” Eddie hisses, and his voice breaks down into a low groan as Richie dips the tip of one finger in, twisting before returning to gently rubbing the slick all over Eddie’s hole and perineum. 

“I think I can get us through this without any need to visit the emergency room,” Richie says. 

“Your dick is kinda big,” Eddie says, cheeks rosy as fuck.

Richie snorts. “ _ Kinda. _ ” He sinks one finger in to the second knuckle. His brain short circuits. Eddie’s tight as a vice and hot as liquid silk, and the noise he makes has Richie gripping the base of his dick with his other hand. “ _ Shit _ .”

“Oh, fucking,” Eddie starts, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

“Touch yourself, baby, I can’t. Fuck, I almost came,” Richie huffs out.

“I can’t. I can’t, I’ll fucking die,” Eddie says, hips giving little twitches. “Come on, Rich, we’re almost there.”

“Can’t rush it. I need this to be good for you, or you’ll never let me stick my dick in your ass again,” Richie says, twisting his finger and pulling it out before repeating the motion. “Shit… Shitting fuck, you’re already getting all rosy.” He teases his second finger in beside the first, and with a gentle press they both slide in fully. “I wanna kiss you. Here,” Richie says, pressing his thumb into Eddie’s perineum, to the rim of Eddie’s hole stretched around his fingers.

Eddie’s cock spurts out a shiny mess of precome, making his abs glisten. It takes him a moment to stop moaning, to bite his lip and growl out, “You’re still the nastiest, dirtiest fuck I’ve ever known.”

Richie thinks about swirling his tongue all around Eddie’s rim, stuffing two fingers in and spreading them so he can lick between them. “Bet you’d like it. You’d fucken  _ love _ my trashmouth between your pretty cheeks. I’ll make you come just from that sometime.” 

Eddie keens in his throat, hips lifting and back arching. “Richie, come _ on. _ ”

Richie chuckles, stroking his hand over his dick slowly, tightly. “Tell me you’ll let me. Baby, please.”

“Fuck you, alright. Fine,  _ shit _ . But you’re not kissing me after, not until you brush your teeth.”

“Promise.”

“God damnit,” Eddie wheezes.

“This can’t be real. I can’t be this lucky.”

“Shut up, dork.” Eddie’s entire body is quivering, one hand on Richie’s knee, the other kneading the sheets.

“You okay?”

“Great. Fucking—this is good. So good.”

Richie feels a little spark go off in his head, and he scoots up a bit further, setting his hand on Eddie’s hip. “Let me… I think…” He turns his hand palm down, curls his fingers a bit and pushes in deep.

The noise Eddie makes is close to pain, and he arches up against it as Richie nails his prostate. His dick leaks again, the length of it twitching so hard the droplets scatter. 

“Wow, first try,” Richie exclaims.

Eddie’s whining, pushing himself up on one arm and hooking one leg higher over Richie’s waist. He grabs Richie’s shoulder with his other hand and pulls him down, grinding his ass down against Richie’s hand as he kisses him wetly. Richie swallows the sounds Eddie makes as he teases around his prostate before returning to it, pushing in, pulling out, scissoring his fingers slowly.

“I need you to fuck me, Richie, I can’t anymore. I can’t wait, I can’t,” Eddie says hurriedly, his voice desperate and reedy.

“Baby, my Eds, can I please?”

“ _ Please _ ,” Eddie gasps, and Richie’s fingers slip free as he pulls back.

“How? You—“

“Like this. First like this. I wanna hold onto you,” Eddie says shakily, letting Richie take one of the pillows from the headboard to slot under the small of his back. It props him up a bit, and he looks down the length of his body and sucks in a sharp breath. “Wow… Oh wow, this is really happening.”

“Yeah, it’s fucking happening.” Richie imagines the sight, Eddie’s thighs spread wide, dick leaking against his own abs, Richie’s body between his legs. He’d like to switch that sight sometime, definitely needs to have Eddie’s stupid, beautiful fingers in his ass someday. He bets Eddie could make him come just talking and fingering him.

“Okay. We’ll try that, you fucking weirdo,” Eddie laughs, and Richie realizes he said more or less of that outloud.

“You promise me, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, crawling over Eddie to kiss the skin over his heart.

“Anything. Everything.”

“I’ve already donated an organ to you. But a second donation can be—“

“Beep beep,” Eddie says, covering his face with one hand.

He’s so beautiful Richie could cry. He can see his baby Eddie in the shadows of this Eddie’s worry lines, in his thick, dark hair and big eyes, feels that pull that he’s always felt. It’s not so scary anymore, hasn’t been since Eddie died, really.

Richie smiles, kissing Eddie’s check before settling back. He hooks his thumbs unto the waistband of his own boxers, and Eddie rises up on his elbows. It feels a bit voyerustic, Eddie watching as Richie carefully shoves his underwear down, revealing himself to his best friend for the first time in thirty years.

Eddie’s eyes rake over him like a heatwave, making Richie flush as they settle on his cock. He’s fully hard, wet and red, and Eddie’s mouth drops open around a soundless gasp.

“Yeah. Kinda big,” Richie says, doing air quotes around the ‘kinda’.

“I mean, I knew, but… I mean, I didn’t know, I figured it…” Eddie trails off, boosting Richie’s confidence and also his anxiety through the ceiling.

“You’re packin’ some impressive heat yourself, Kaspbrak,” Richie says, and he’s not lying. It has the desired effect of making Eddie laugh bashfully, and Richie carefully shuffles out of his boxers and crawls between Eddie’s thighs again.

“I’ll be careful with you, Eds. Promise,” Richie says. He grips his dick with one hand, picking up the lube bottle, and blinks in a daze when Eddie pumps some of the liquid into his own hand. He props himself up a bit higher, licking his lips before he circles his fingers around Richie’s cock. Eddie’s fingers tremble, just barely, but his grip quickly turns tight and sure, and he slicks Richie up in a way that feels like the main event.

Richie releases his cock in favor of holding himself up with both arms, because Eddie Kaspbrak giving him a hand job is loosing the strings of his sanity quite quickly. “Eds… Eddie, fuck.”

“We’ll start slow. Would be better, if I turned over… But I want to see you,” Eddie says softly, thumbing the slit of Richie’s dick, the thick vein along the underside.

Richie snorts. “So you  _ do _ know some of the mechanics.”

“You’re not getting me to say doggy style so easily,” Eddie quips.

“Ah, but now you have.” Richie tries not to giggle, finds it easy to cut off his laughter when Eddie’s knee is at his side, his heel hooking under Richie’s ass.

“Come fuck me, Tozier, or you’re only getting missionary for the rest of our lives,” Eddie says, voice teasing.

“Gasp! You will deny me nothing once I’ve vigorously deflowered you, sir, I promise you that,” Richie says, getting his hand under Eddie’s other knee, holding him open.

Eddie blushes,  _ darkly _ , and sets his hands on Richie. The lube-slick one touches Richie’s waist, the clean one… settles right over Richie’s scar. “I couldn’t deny you if I tried, Rich.”

It feels… so soft. So good and warm, Richie doesn’t think sex should feel this way. He angles his dick, the head catching on Eddie’s rim a few times before it sinks, just the head enveloped by Eddie’s sweltering heat. Or maybe sex should  _ only _ feel like this. Maybe.

Eddie gasps, eyes falling shut as his nails bite gently into Richie’s skin.

Richie works in deeper, slowly, Eddie’s shaky little breaths an anchor and a gauge. He rocks in, settles, uses his leverage to pull Eddie down onto him. When he’s settled to the hilt, literally balls deep in his best friend, Richie blinks. A splatter of water hits his glasses, and Richie curses quietly.

Eddie’s eyes finally open, and they’re all pupil. He blinks dazedly, some focus returning to his expression as he lifts a hand and touches Richie’s face. He carefully knocks Richie’s glasses free, touches his lashes and cheeks, pulls Richie down, down, down.

Richie kisses Eddie like he needs it to breathe, and a twinge behind his ribs that feels like starlight makes him gasp into Eddie’s mouth. 

“I’m here,” Eddie whispers, shivering like he’s coming apart beneath Richie already. His ankles cross behind Richie’s thighs, knees squeezing Richie’s hips, and he holds Richie so close and tight that Richie sobs.

“Fuck, Eds,” Richie says, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck. He kisses Eddie’s racing pulse, feels how it matches exactly how he’s feeling.

“I’m here. Richie, I love you, come—come on. It’s alright,” Eddie says, shifting his hips. The motion gently rocks them together, and Richie is reminded of how he’s literally fucking his best friend. Or he’s supposed to be. Instead he’s crying into Eddie’s neck, hating how good he feels, hating how he’s spent his whole life never feeling half this good.

Having Eddie in his arms, warm and soft under him, holding him back—Richie’s life has really been shit up until the moment he got Eddie Kaspbrak back.

“I love you more than anything, you aggravating shit,” Richie says, pushing up onto his arms.

Eddie looks up at him, eyes all starry night and face flushed. The way Eddie moans suddenly when Richie rocks into him, so sweet and high, unexpected, makes Richie feel high.

“I love you,” Richie says again, and he sets a rhythm with his hips that he didn’t know he was capable of. He fucks Eddie deep and firm, the slow pace allowing him to watch how Eddie takes him, each deep slide leaving him with a breathless gasp.

And for his part, Eddie rolls his hips up to meet Richie’s, gasping and moaning as his chest turns the prettiest shade of red Richie’s ever seen. He presses his hand over Eddie’s chest, feels the deep, quick pounding rhythm, his heart is striving to beat out. It’s like he feels that same rush in his own blood.

“So much,” Eddie slurs, prying his eyes open like it’s a physical struggle. “Richie, you feel so good.”

“I was made for this,” Richie teases, sliding his hand from Eddie’s chest to his neck, framing his jaw. “Just for you, Eddie.”

“More,” Eddie gasps. “Harder. Please, just—“he curses through his teeth, nails biting down Richie’s back. “Wanna feel you.”

“You will, Spaghetti,” Richie promises, adjusting his position. He shifts on his knees, slides an arm under the small of Eddie’s back to lift him. “Promise I’ll fuck the ability to walk right outta you.” And when he drives in hard, snapping his hips up, Eddie keens. It’s a sharp, broken noise, startled out of him with the force of his pleasure, and Richie does it again and again, chasing that sound. Eddie’s walls spasm around him, tight and hot and so wet inside Richie wants his dick buried here forever. It’s illogical, sure, but Richie thinks they could find a way to make it happen. 

Eddie clings to him perfectly, arms thrown around Richie and nails dug into his skin. Eddie’s thighs around his waist hold him so tightly Richie has to put in twice the effort to slide out before he can fuck back in, and he loves it. 

A hand finds his hair, and Richie gasps when Eddie yanks at the tangled locks with force. “Fuck, Rich, that’s it. Shit, fuck me, god,  _ please _ ,” Eddie babbles, voice low and dangerous on Richie’s skin. 

“Shit, Eddie, the mouth on you,” Richie teases, fucking him harder. His eyes sting as Eddie pulls his hair again, and his hips snap rougher, meaner.

“You like it,” Eddie growls, running his tongue over Richie’s neck before biting just at the hinge of his jaw. 

“Oh, I  _ love _ it. Don’t hold back, baby, lemme have all of you.” Richie presses bruises into Eddie’s hip with one hand, the other wrapping under Eddie’s back, grabbing his hair—though much more gently than Eddie is gripping his. “Tell me more; tell me how you’ve always wanted me to fuck you.”

Eddie whines, a tremor running through his body that breaks their rhythm for a moment. “Always. Fuck, knew you’d be so big, I wanted it to hurt.”

“ _ Eddie _ ,” Richie mewls.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Eddie admits. “Fuck, it just feels so good, Richie. I’m gonna fucking cry.”

“Go on, baby, I’m right here. Fuck, you close, Eds?” Richie grips Eddie’s hip harder, forcing his waist down against the bed as he snaps his hips harder.

“I think I’m—dying,” Eddie says breathlessly. He holds fast to Richie, moaning into his neck. “Richie, it’s so much.”

“I’ve got you, Eddie,” Richie promises, and his hands feel like they’re going numb. There’s a deep, almost sharp heat settling in his chest, and he can feel something thrumming in his throat, his legs, his chest. It’s almost like… a pulse. “You got me too, right?”

“Always, Tozier,” Eddie says, shivering hard. He resists when Richie presses him down against the mattress, gets a hand on Eddie’s face and turns those big dark eyes up to his face. Eddie’s eyes are glassy with tears, his mouth red and trembling, and he’s flushed so deeply Richie wants to take a picture and frame it.

Eddie lifts a hand, his whole body shaking as he carefully nudges Richie’s glasses up. His thumb traces over a track mark of tears before he cups Richie’s face. “I can’t believe I forgot I loved you… I can’t believe this just—got  _ taken _ from me.”

“No one’s ever gonna take it again, Eddie,” Richie says lowly, kissing Eddie’s temple, his cheek. “Just gotta stay right here, and we’ll never forget.”

“Kay,” Eddie whispers, then takes a shuddering breath. “I’m… I’m gonna come, fuck, Rich.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Right where you are. Hold me, please. Don’t stop,” Eddie pleads, scraping his nails sweetly over Richie’s pec. He presses his fingertips into the seam of the scar, gentle but sure, and Richie can  _ feel it _ .

He can feel the weight and the press of his heartbeat inside of him, and he’s almost startled out of his sweet, passionate climb towards orgasm. He lays his hand over Eddie’s chest, feels the source of the heartbeat warm and heavy behind Eddie’s ribs, and he realizes what he feels is an echo. His heart in Eddie’s chest is beating like a frantic, wild,  _ living _ thing, and the deep, sweet pressure behind his own ribs is a shared feeling, a matching response in his blood.

Richie ducks down and steals Eddie’s breath with a wet, deep kiss, and he keeps Eddie pinned with his body, lips, and cock until he feels the smaller man shaking apart under him. He shudders at the feeling of heat splashing across his stomach, and Richie groans into Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie is whining against his tongue, not even kissing Richie back anymore, just letting Richie lick into his open mouth as his cock spurts all over Richie’s abs. “That’s it, Eds,” Richie moans, biting at Eddie’s mouth and jaw.

He lifts himself up on his arms, he has to see this, fucking  _ has _ to look at Eddie’s face. And Eddie’s so beautiful, like Richie fucking knew he would be. He’s red as a cherry, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open as he  _ keeps coming _ .

And Richie keeps fucking into him, his whole body a live wire, an exposed nerve that’s lit with heat so hot it’s damn near painful.

“C… Come for me, Rich. Pl—please, fuck,” Eddie says brokenly, reaching a hand out blindly, which Richie takes. He tangles their fingers together and goes back to kissing Eddie, the tension from Eddie’s orgasm making him tighter, hotter. Richie doesn’t last much longer after that, and when he starts coming he keeps thrusting in and out of Eddie for a bit before shoving himself deep and staying there. The edges of his vision dance with white sparkles, and he moans into Eddie’s neck and trembles above him as the iron-hot coil in his stomach snaps and twists over and over.

His orgasm seems to last forever, heat and light dancing all over the place like Richie’s never come before. Richie thinks he might be crying, but it’s hard to tell considering the sweaty mess he is. He shifts to the side so he’s not crushing Eddie, but the little shit clings to him by his hair and his hip.

“Don’t go,” Eddie mutters quickly, slurring drunkenly. 

“I’m right here, my Eds. You gotta breathe,” Richie manages to say through deep panting noises, and he rolls his hips so that he slips out of Eddie and can flop onto the bed beside him. "Shit, I wanna see you... Where," Richie grumbles, pawing around for his glasses. When he finds them he pushes them on, smudging one lense before he gives Eddie a once over.

He's flushed rosy down his neck and chest, breathing hard. His big, dark eyes are sparkly and wet, the overwhelming depth of his beauty forcing Richie to duck down and kiss Eddie's head. Several times.

Eddie mewls, a sweet, high noise that has Richie curling his toes. Eddie trembles, turning so he can duck his head under Richie’s chin, kissing the sweaty V of his chest. “That was…”

“The best sex ever?” Richie asks.

“…You idiot. It’s the  _ only _ sex we’ve ever had,” Eddie grumbles.

“Then it is for certainly so the best,” Richie says. “And it shall continue being the… best.” He sighs, tangling a hand into Eddie’s hair. “I’m… fucked.”

Eddie burrows in deep, using his limbs to hold onto Richie with the kind of static cling koalas adhere to each other with.

“My Eddie baby is needy,” Richie says blissfully. “An after sex cuddler.”

“I’m having separation anxiety from your dick is all,” Eddie grouses.

“You needn’t worry about that. I’m not planning on separating the two of you.”

Eddie hums, kissing Richie’s chest again, and again. He inhales like he’s about to speak, then halts. “Rich…”

“Hm?”

“… I… Your, uhm…” Eddie lifts his head a little, and Richie glances down at him with a quizzical frown. His face is a brilliant rose red. “I can feel…  _ it _ . Leaking out of me.”

Richie’s eyes widen, and he immediately grabs Eddie by his hips. He hauls him over, ignoring Eddie’s protests as Richie lays him down on the bed and shuffles back between his legs, Eddie squirming on his belly. Richie cups Eddie’s ass with both hands and spreads his cheeks, the action making Eddie whine in shame.

“Holy shit,” Richie marvels, watching the pearly fluid dripping from Eddie’s pink, puckered little hole. It’s shiny on his thighs, and Richie has a gut-twisting urge to lap it all up.

“You’re the worst—get off me,” Eddie whines, kicking his legs. But Richie has them pinned at the thighs.

“Eds, you have no idea how beautiful this is,” Richie says dreamily.

“I hate you,” Eddie groans into the pillow, hands flexing on the sheets. “ _ Richieeee _ , it’s embarrassing.”

Richie leans over and kisses one of Eddie’s precious, perfect butt cheeks. “It’s not though. It’s you and me.”

Eddie mumbles, ears red where they peek out of his sex-mussed hair.

“You wanna shower? Is my Spaghetti too dirty?” Richie asks, easing up so Eddie can turn over a bit. He uses his new mobility to draw Richie down to him, kissing him softly. It deepens when Richie settles his weight more fully onto Eddie’s body, sliding along the length of him so they’re touching head to toe.

“I kinda like it,” Eddie says quietly against Richie’s lips.

Richie’s head spins, little birds dancing on the crown of his head. “Now, you can’t be  _ my _ Eddie. He would never like something so debaucherous, so degrade-ful.”

“Those aren’t words, dipshit,” Eddie laughs, sliding both hands into Richie’s curls and pulling. He kisses Richie again, uses one leg to hook over Richie’s hips and hold him even closer. “It feels gross, yeah… But it’s like a good gross. A Richie gross.”

“I’m not gross,” Richie says, curling a hand around Eddie’s ribs to feel his heartbeat. “A creampie given with love is the sweetest, cleanest kind.”

Eddie pushes at his face, laughing, and when Richie begins pinching and piking his tummy and sides Eddie’s laugh peels like a ringing bell.

It’s everything. Everything Richie ever wanted. It’s perfect. He can kiss Eddie, and make love to him, and fuck him, and then tickle him. He can talk shit one moment and have Eddie’s blissful moan on his lips the next. It’s a dream come true.

“I love you, Eds,” Richie says, tangled around the love of his life, the boy of his dreams. “I love you more than… More.”

Eddie’s smile could shame the sunrise. He runs his fingers along Richie’s stubbled jaw. “I love you, too, Richie. More,” he says so sweetly, and Richie vaguely wonders if it’s the first time Eddie has said those words and felt them, meant them.

“We’ll sleep better if we’re clean. Shower?”

“No shower sex,” Eddie says, tilting his head so Richie can kiss his neck better. “The number of emergency room visits that stem from slip-and-falls—“

“Baby, talk dirty to me,” Richie purrs.

“I’m  _ serious _ , Rich.”

“Then we’ll be careful,” Richie promises, taking Eddie’s hands and pulling him from the bed. “If I’m on my knees, I can’t slip and fall very far, can I?”

Eddie’s arms loop around Richie’s neck, his kiss both fierce and tender. “You are an idiot, Trashmouth.”

Richie kisses the pulse in Eddie’s neck, feels it in his fingertips. “Yours, though.”

Eddie pushes his face against Richie’s, kissing him again and again. “Always.”

“You mine, too, Eds?” Richie asks, pulling Eddie against him with grabby hands and lips. He lets his hands be led by Eddie’s fingers, until Eddie has them pressed over his chest and he can feel the deep, true, living beat of his heart. 

Eddie’s heart. His heart. Their heart.

“Always, Rich. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world really got FUCKED in 2020. I realized I hadn't updated this fic since February, and I thought that can't be right. But it is!! Holy shit, I'm sorry y'all. Thanks to everyone who stuck around, and welcome to anyone new who's finishing the fic now.  
I'm thinking I want an epilogue chapter for this, but as it stands I'm gonna mark it complete. Because the epilogue only adds fluff, not substance, and I want this story to be done in a good place. So! Here it is.  
Thank you my pretty, patient darlings. Love you all and these two idiots.


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